


swallow nostalgia (chase it with lime)

by whisperingwind



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Angst, Complicated Relationships, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Hospitalization, Injury Recovery, M/M, Mutual Pining
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-11
Updated: 2017-09-24
Packaged: 2018-12-26 12:46:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 31,858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12059271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whisperingwind/pseuds/whisperingwind
Summary: “Something's wrong with him,” Liam says, eyes following each movement Harry makes. Harry's hand is cradling his forehead, heel of his palm pressing the skin between his eyebrows. “Louis. Something is wrong with Harry,” he repeats, voice deep, panicked. Louis disregards him.“Go ask him about it then. You have two legs, you’re not an idiot,” Louis quips, tone infused with sarcasm and disgust. He doesn’t care, has no reason to, they haven’t said more than ten words to each other in months. Harry isn’t his responsibility anymore.Or, the one where Louis undoubtedly despises Harry until Harry suffers a serious brain injury and needs him.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> some of you may remember this story on my other account (lovelougoodbye), but i deleted it before posting it on this account as i forgot about the work and let it sit at 16k words for over fourteen months. 
> 
> i don't like to leave anything unfinished, so here we are, finally rebooting this story. may the gods of college, coffee, and music help me. 
> 
> as always i've spent a lot of time researching the topics discussed in this story - and i continue to research as the story progresses - so please recognize this is not based off personal or professional experience. i apologize for any inconsistencies or inaccuracies and mean absolutely no offense to anyone. 
> 
> title taken from "suburbia" by troye sivan
> 
> with that said, thank you for clicking on the story and i hope you enjoy!

Harry has never felt quite like this before. His head is pounding, pulsating, and his stomach is in knots. He has his share of anxiety when it comes to being on stage in front of crowds, crowds of eighty thousand plus especially, but he's been doing this for five years, five wholesome years, and nerves aren't as much of an influence anymore.

This is something entirely different. An illness perhaps. It isn't improbable. He's prone to being ill. Genetics, poor immune system, allergies, lack of proper nutrition, exhaustion, any reason someone can name is a possible reason for his constant illnesses. 

He loathes being sick, loathes being on vocal rest, losing his voice, having to choose between talking and singing, he loathes it all. It's hard to be in the industry, even harder being ill and trying to persevere through shows two hours in length. He manages, though.

The boys tell him they wouldn’t mind if he wanted to take a break, cancel one bloody show, take some well-deserved time off, proper time off, a vacation. He doesn’t ever accept their offers. He likes his job, likes to work, likes touring, the fans, the songs, everything about being Harry Styles of One Direction.

Sometimes he feels run-down, exhausted, disconnected, lost, but he’s happy, extremely happy, actually. No one could ever pry his happiness and exhilaration from him, not even Louis.

Louis Tomlinson. High cheekbones, dainty nose, omniscient eyes comparable to a starry midnight, dark blue, speckled with crystal. Heartbreaker.

They were in love, or, at least, Harry thinks they were. He doesn't really know what love is, never really got to see it in his own household growing up. His dad broke his mum's heart, his sister's fiancé broke her heart, and Louis broke his heart. Then again,  _ bad things happen in threes,  _ or at least that's what his mum said soon after his relationship with Louis ended.

A flame can only blaze so long before dousing. Their fire kindled for years, three wonderful, lively years, slowly building up, illuminating their future’s path, before fading and taking everything with it.

It’s dark without his torch in hand. He’s circling the cave of despair, round and round without even knowing it, trying to find the real light, the light on the other side of the tunnel, but it’s not there. He’s lost, trying to calm his subconscious, there isn’t a bear, there isn’t bats, there isn’t anything to be afraid, nothing will hurt him, aside from himself. Once he finds his way out of this dark place, he’ll be okay, he’ll find his regenerated light.

He thought what he had with Louis was something special, rather than some short term fling, only lasting because of their fame status. He didn't realize he would wake up to an empty bed one morning, confused and startled, with nothing explaining Louis' departure. There wasn't a note, a text, a phone call, any article of his clothing or valuables left behind.

It wasn’t until he found Louis, a few weeks after, clearing his belongings from their shared dressing room, he understood. Things were over. Their relationship was only a collection of pictures, videos, tattoos, past emotion, memories, and nothing more.

Harry left the dressing room, the stadium, the country even, without speaking a single word to Louis, or to anyone for that matter. A week of shows were canceled.

He was in Los Angeles, city of broken dreams, realists, lost love, when he burned a picture of the two of them - the first picture they ever took together. Louis left him in silence, left their whole future behind, and all he ever wanted to know was why?

The pads of his fingers burned, along with the picture, but he didn't care. Flames reflected off his pupils, ashes littered his empty bed, the scent of a burnt and forgotten past filled his nose, yet he had never felt more in control.

He tries not to think about the situation. His mum tells him it's not worth it, though he begs to differ. Usually, he's successful with forgetting the love he had once gave and received, but some days are harder than others. Being in the same band as someone he hates, sharing a bus with someone he hates, touring all year with someone he hates, is not easy, but again, he manages.

After all, that picture, Louis, their relationship, has been incinerated and out of his life for eight months.

"How's it going H?" Liam asks, draping his arm around Harry's broad shoulders, "You having a good time?"

I feel really weird, Harry wants to tell him. "Yeah. Good crowd tonight. Did you see the 'Liam, I think about you when I touch myself' sign?" he says instead, sounding casual, masking the uncomfortable ache gathered in his temples.

"Oh..." The lights are dim, spotlight focused solely on Niall who wanders the stage, ranting about his love for performing home, in London, but the blush tinting Liam's cheeks is noticeable as ever. "Uh. No actually. I didn't."

"Sophia kicked her out," Harry reveals, finding humor in his own words. He watched the entire situation play out, from beginning to end, a very angry Sophia complained to a guard and a very distraught, girl sobbed as she was forcibly removed from the venue. Security guards are not gentle, not even when it comes to removing teenage girls from a concert.

"Seriously?" Liam asks and Harry nods. "Brilliant. I'll get to hear about it after the show. She has got to be the most jealous person I've ever known."

"She loves you. I can't say I blame her," Harry says, honestly. He knows and understands the feeling. When Louis was  _ his _ , he was always jealous of the attention from fans, signs with witty comments about his bum and his cheekbones always upset him the most. He hated people who loved those features as much as he did, though he reminded himself they weren't the ones who had the honor of kissing them, but it doesn’t matter anymore. He doesn’t have the honor either. 

"I know she does," Liam sighs, quickly following up with, "but it's annoying. I don't want the fans to hate her because they don't like what she has to say and I don't want her to hate the fans because she doesn't like what they say."

It's complicated, very complicated, Harry guesses, judging by the complex thought _Liam,_ out of all people, has put into it. He’s the shallowest man Harry knows of.

Somehow he's ended up giving relationship advice yet again. Every romantic and sexual relationship he has ever been apart of has ended in failure. No one should come to him for advice, ever, but despite his failures, they still trample on top of one another to hear his opinion. He supposes it's because at one time he was one the most charismatic people there was in showbiz. Needlessly said, those attributes have faded in the past eight months. 

Through witnessing the establishment of relationships by his bandmates, Liam with Sophia, Niall with his spontaneous girlfriends, and even his ex-bandmate Zayn Malik with supermodel Gigi Hadid, he’s finally come to a conclusion. He isn't meant to find love, rather he should focus on his job and his real estate and things that make him content, like writing poetry and practicing yoga. Relationships aren't everything.

"Just talk to her Liam. She's new to this whole fame thing so take the time to explain everything to her. Explain the fans and the paparazzi. You shouldn't expect her to understand right away," he says. For making advice up on the spot and not meaning a word of it, he sounds like a proper professional.

Perhaps, he should look into becoming a guru, take part in that  _ Eat, Pray, Love  _ bullshit, travel the world searching for himself, maybe then he would  _ truly  _ be happy.

"Hey. You're right. I think I will talk to her," Liam sounds surprised, which, he probably is. Harry hasn't offered good, hearty advice in months, though he’s always been easy to talk to. It's just everyone who knows him knows it’s rare he has something good to contribute.

Niall finishes his rant, rather his thoughtful monologue, and hands it off to Harry to introduce the next track. Harry isn't a man of many words, not anymore anyways. "This is Drag Me Down." he says, hoping to move this concert along and head back to the hotel. If he takes some aspirin and has a good few hours of sleep then this odd feeling is bound to go away.

He breaks away from Liam and strides down the catwalk, singing his first verse, appearing to be having a great time, though it's all an act. As his voice fades out, Louis’ voice fades in to sing the intro to the chorus, and he turns to make his way back up the catwalk.

His vision darkens as soon as he turns. Liam's in his line of sight for a split second before everything dims. He tries relaxing for a second, draws in a few deep breaths, and slowly, but certainly his vision floods back, blurred. Liam’s face is pulled tight in concern.

A shiver shoots up his spine and his grip loosens on the mic as he tries to blink the obscurity in front of his eyes away. Fortunately, for him, it works, everything is clear again, but Liam is no longer in front of him.

Liam’s stood with Louis, both of them turned to look his way, pointing at him. Unsurprisingly, Louis’ face is drawn into a frown with his eyebrows creased together and lips pursed. His entire body absorbs a scoff before he stares off in another direction.

“Something's wrong with him,” Liam says, eyes following each movement Harry makes. Harry's hand is cradling his forehead, heel of his palm pressing the skin between his eyebrows. “Louis. Something is wrong with Harry,” he repeats, voice deep, panicked. Louis disregards him.

“Go ask him about it then. You have two legs, you’re not an idiot.” Louis quips, tone infused with sarcasm and disgust. He doesn’t care, has no reason to, they haven’t said more than ten words to each other in months. Harry isn’t his responsibility anymore.

“What did he do to you?” Liam asks, stepping into Louis’ line of sight. Louis avoids making eye contact, but Liam will not be ignored. “Why do you hate him so much? There’s obviously something going on with him and you don’t even care. Why is that?”

“Look at that. You’re finally right about something. I  _ don’t  _ care. Let him take care of himself. He’s a big boy, and he doesn’t need his bandmates mothering him. If something was really wrong with him, do you honestly think he would stand there like a fuckin’ fool and continue to perform? He’s ignorant, not stupid,” Louis argues, keeping his voice low. If microphones caught onto what they’re saying, the media would have frenzy with hate rumors, which wouldn’t necessarily be incorrect, but inconvenient and bothersome to their marketing.

Liam doesn’t know what to say at first. “I can’t believe you. At the end of the day, he’s still your bandmate, whether you had a falling out months ago or not,” he says and Louis knows he’s upset him, telling by the quiver caught in the back of his throat, still, he can’t bring himself to care.

Things don’t begin to fall apart until Harry’s doing his last few riffs, rather his last few screams as Louis refers to them as. Harry can’t sing the notes, of course not, he has to scream them. He knows Louis finds him to be obnoxious, therefore Louis is convinced he does it on purpose, it’s something Harry  _ would _ do to get under his skin.

“Nobody can drag me...” he sings, doesn’t scream, doesn’t change the note, in fact his voice fades into a whisper before he completely stops. The ache in his head quickly transforms into a sharp pain that paralyzes his entire body. He feels like he can't move. The mic braced in his hand slips out of his hold, crashing to the floor with a loud, high-pitched screech. The world around him blurs, the room’s spinning, he feels sick to his stomach, and a feeling of infinite panic crosses over him. 

Dim spots dance in front of his eyes, he tries to blink them away. It may have worked earlier, but his eyes are now deceiving him. To make everything a bit scarier, he doesn’t know if he’s hallucinating or if the fans are all genuinely staring at him and maniacally laughing. Their grins are devilish, soon they all warp together in a blur of flesh and flashing lights. He doesn’t know what’s going on.

There’s nothing humorous to his situation, he doesn’t understand, mumbling to himself, “Not funny…I…It’s funny? Don’t...no understand. I…” He can’t hear himself. His mouth feels strange, tingling with an odd numbness, and he isn’t sure if he’s actually speaking or imagining the words, either way they’re still unclear and he just doesn’t understand.

Liam turns his head around as soon as the mic drops from Harry’s hand, arching an eyebrow at the younger lad. “What the hell?” Hearing Liam’s comment, Louis too turns, noticing Harry uncoordinatedly stagger across the stage. Something doesn’t feel right. A feeling of fear collides with the pit of his stomach, making his stomach roll with apprehension. He knows something isn’t right, but he doesn’t say a word.

It’s something about the way Harry’s walking, holding his head, lethargic, confused, making him feel unsettled. He supposes Harry’s being overdramatic, then again maybe Liam’s right, perhaps there is something wrong with his ex-boyfriend.

Meanwhile, the sharp pain Harry feels in his temples spreads through his entire head. His brain is pulsating against his skull, it has to be, there’s no other explanation for this dreadful pain.

“H?” A morphed voice calls out. His head sluggishly rolls to look in the direction of the voice, there’s a moment where he genuinely thinks God is speaking to him, but as soon as a distorted mass of blond hair and pale flesh comes into his line of sight, he knows it’s Niall talking to him, not God, unfortunately. “Harry? What’s wrong? Harry! Talk to me. Is it your head? Did you hit your head?” I didn’t hit my head, he thinks to himself, or, at least, he doesn’t remember hitting his head.

There’s hands on his shoulders now, he guesses, and they’re shaking him, only disorientating him more, though oddly enough it lessens the throbbing.

Consciousness is leaving him, that’s why, he realizes. He isn't drifting into a deep sleep, rather his senses are failing him completely. His vision dims further each time he blinks and everything becomes numb, there’s no sensation throughout his whole body.

The pulsating fades, but one final spark of torment unevenly spreads through his head, like a part of his brain exploded and he hopes, prays, that’s the end of it.

Unfortunately, he’s wrong, devastatingly wrong, his legs buckle, knees hit the floor, vision fades to black, and the pain in his head intensifies like nothing before.

“Fuck!” Niall yelps, his microphone still on. He grips beneath Harry’s arms as soon as his knees hit the cement. “No, no, no. Harry? Shit. Stay with me pet, stay with me. I’m right here. It’ll be alright,” Hardly managing by himself, it takes all of his strength to get Harry lying flat on his back. He drops to his knees, hands hovering over his blatantly harmed bandmate.

As soon as Harry’s legs buckle, Liam leaves Louis behind, standing by himself, as he runs down the catwalk towards Niall and Harry. Louis isn’t stood by himself for long, he too makes the effort to be with his bandmates in this time of crisis. Even if Harry isn’t his favorite person in the world, he’s obligated to see what’s going on.

Liam’s getting the attention of security, telling them to get medics on the stage immediately. This isn’t right, this wasn’t supposed to happen, not to Harry, not to any of them, not to anyone performing on stage in front of a crowd of eighty thousand, but especially not Harry.

Harry presses his fingertips to his temples as hard as he can as though he’s going to drain all the pain from his head like helium out of a balloon. Loud cries start to fall from between his lips and he rolls over to lay on his stomach. His forehead squishes to the stage floor as the pressure he applies absorbs the tension, not much, but some. Still the cries only grow sharper and more pained, even though they’re slightly distorted by the floor.

Louis drops down to his knees as soon as he hears the cries leaving Harry. His entire body withers with each sob that tears it’s way through the back of his throat, and Louis doesn't know what provokes him to take charge, but he immediately starts touching Harry's neck and back anyway.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Niall yells and slaps his hands away from Harry before adding, “You don’t know what’s wrong with him, you could be hurting him even more.”

“I know what I’m doing. Please.” Louis whispers, swallowing down all the anger and resentment he’s ever felt towards Harry. His eyes are begging, pleading for Niall to let him take care of Harry. Niall can’t tell him no, it’s impossible to with the look that’s crossed his face. Louis, for once, is sincere, and hasn’t been this sincere towards Harry, or anyone as a matter of fact, in eight months.

“Fine,” he sighs, “but be careful. Don’t fuck anything up. Liam’s getting medics up here, you don’t want to be the reason he’s paralyzed or something.”

Louis tries not to focus on what Niall’s said to him. Paralyzed? No. There’s no possible way Harry’s going to come out of this paralyzed. He must’ve hit his head or perhaps he’s just extremely ill, dehydrated or exhausted or something, but not paralyzed, no way. “Shh...it’s okay Harry,” he gently, very gently, rubs Harry’s back, keeping Niall’s words of discouragement in mind, while forming small circular patterns against the tension in his muscles. “You’re okay. You’ve got to calm down for when the paramedics get here, they need to figure out what’s wrong, but they won’t be able to understand you,” he says, soft, but all Harry responds with are louder sobs.

Harry’s trying to make himself as small as possible, body trembling with pain, and every time Louis touches him he buckles against the contact. He doesn’t know it’s Louis, if he did, despite them being in a fight, he would still let him touch him, Louis knows he would. “It’s alright. Someone will be here to help you any second now. I won’t leave you until then.”

Harry doesn’t come around at all, doesn’t show a single sign of acknowledgement, doesn’t do as much as look in Louis’ direction. He’s completely incoherent, and Louis realizes then that all of this is real, it’s all very, truly, genuinely real.

A particularly loud cry leaves him. Louis winces at the force of anguish behind it upon realizing there’s nothing he can do, nothing aside from whispering, “Shh. You’re gonna be okay. I promise.”

Liam stands nearby, eyes wide as he stares at them. This isn’t good. He knows that whatever this is, whatever it may be, is seriously not good. He’s surprised Louis is helping Harry, considering his sheer hatred for him these past months, but for some reason it sits the wrong way with him. If Harry hadn’t collapsed, Louis wouldn’t be doing this, he would have never touched him ever again.

Horrified screams come from the audience, everyone collectively calls Harry’s name or yells uncertain curses, no one understands what’s happened. Liam can’t say he blames them.

There’s medics encasing the four of them in seconds. Louis is forced to his feet, and shoved away from Harry. “Hey!” he shouts and tries to push his way through the team of medics, but Liam catches his shoulders and holds him stationary.

“They’re doing their job,” Liam whispers, keeping himself collected despite Louis’ attempts to break away from his hold. “Leave it alone. There’s nothing you can do about it,” he says, an angry and apathetic tone has taken over him.

Louis’ eyes well up with tears as he watches Harry sob against the stage floor, still holding his head, and he’s left wondering what’s happening to his bandmate. He hates this, hates what their current relationship status is, hates that Harry hates him, hates that he can’t go over, give Harry a million kisses, tell him it’ll be alright. It’s his fault things are this way. He didn’t want it to be like this, he genuinely didn’t, he wanted to still have some kind of emotional connection with Harry, but things didn’t work out that way. “Did he...he must have hit his head, right? Did he hit his head?”

Niall shakes his head.  “I don’t...fuck, I don’t know. Can’t we talk about this later?” he mutters. He avoids Louis entirely after that, walking to side with Liam and Louis doesn’t quite understand. He hasn’t done anything wrong, in fact, he was trying to help Harry, yet they’re mad at him. He doesn’t have the slightest idea why.   

Security floods on all sides and escorts them off stage. Once backstage Louis is face to face, chest to chest, nose to nose with their tour manager, Sam, shouting and pointing an accusing finger at him. “What the fuck happened to him out there?”

Sam remains as calm as possible, softly telling Louis, “I don’t know. All I know is he’s being transported to the nearest hospital. The paramedics say he needs immediate medical attention.”

“He needs...” Louis chokes on the cry building up in the back of his throat, “He needs someone there with him! How could you let this happen?” Sam’s stares at him in absolute bewilderment. Louis hasn’t spoken to or about Harry in nearly a year, and, well, here he is, being an emotional wreck over his bandmate he supposedly hated.

Sam rests a hand on Louis’ shoulder. “Louis I’m sorry it’s out of my control. I’ll have security drive you there as soon as the venue clears, if that’s what you want, but there’s nothing more I can do at this point.”

Louis’ irises darken and a scoff explodes past his lips. “When the venue clears? That could take hours. I’m leaving as soon as Preston comes back here. Where is he?” That’s preposterous. Sam wants him to wait hours to see his boyfriend...wait, no, his bandmate. He’s supposed to wait hours to see his bandmate who's been rushed to the hospital. It’s crazy to expect that from him, though the more he thinks about it, he realizes that Harry’s a stranger to him. He doesn’t know Harry, hasn’t known him for months, however here he is making the situation about himself.

“He went to go find Anne and Gemma,” Sam answers, a bit pale in the face now, like he may need to sit down and relax in the midst of this havoc.

Fuck. Louis completely forgot that Anne and Gemma were at the gig tonight. There were backstage earlier, speaking to Harry, smiling, laughing, now they must be crying, sobbing, paralyzed in fear. There were among the massive crowd when Harry collapsed, when he started sobbing, screaming, when he was swept away on a backboard.

Louis feels sick. His entire body twinges with the unknown, pins and needles attack his nerves. Realization sets in, there’s nothing he can do, nothing he does or says will change what happened to Harry, that very thought is certainly the worst.

He runs from Sam, down the hallway, to the brick wall, assuming it won’t let him down like everyone else. There’s less chaos there, if he needs to throw up, which is a possibility with the ache in his stomach, a bathroom is across the way.

His forehead presses against the cool brick surface. Clenching his eyelids shut, heaving out lung-rattling breaths, he tries his hardest to keep his emotions under control. His body is shaking. This has to be a dream. There’s no way, no possible way, that any of this is real. He  _ has  _ to be dreaming and, shit, this is the most morbid dream he’s ever had.

Too many minutes tick past him, then, there’s a tender hand on his back, drawing patterns against the material of his shirt. A particular scent fills his nose, Anne’s particular scent, as no one else wears a combination of Tom Ford and Clive Christian, no one else has perfectly manicured nails, aside from his sisters, and it’s definitely not either of them. 

He doesn’t understand why Anne is shushing him, telling him it’s going to be okay, rubbing  _ his _ back, when he’s the one who shattered her little boy’s heart, her little boy who he’s ignored for eight whole months, her little boy who was taken away in an ambulance moments prior.

“Are you okay?” she asks, voice no louder than a whisper. Heavy, feeble breaths leave her, and the more attention Louis pulls away from himself, the more he recognizes the tremor in her hand.

Louis turns to face her, “I…” he hesitates and draws in a sharp breath before continuing, “I think so. What about you? Are you okay?”

She definitely isn’t. Tears pour down her face, dripping onto the front of her blouse, flushing the color from her cheeks. Her complexion completely lacks color, aside from black mascara stained under her eyes and pink lipstick smudged across her chin.

“I’m still trying to figure out what’s going on,” she admits, eyes wordlessly searching him for a plausible response. A cry is caught in the back of her throat. “What happened Louis? No one will tell me anything. I deserve to know what happened to my baby out there.”

He should have figured she was going to ask, should have been trying to think of an appropriate answer to give her, should have been the one consoling her, but the truth is, he doesn’t have a clue what happened to Harry. “I don’t know. He started...he was crying and grabbing his head. I don’t know if...maybe he hit his head or something like that.”

“I knew something wasn’t right. He looked like he had never been in front of a crowd before, his face was so pale. I could see him shaking from where I was sitting, and you know Harry, it’s not like him to be nervous,” she says. God, Louis wants to correct her. He doesn’t know Harry, hasn’t known him for nearly a year, for all he knows Harry could be an anxiety-ridden mess, crying himself to sleep every night.  “There was nothing I could do. I couldn’t tell anyone, I was too far back in the stadium, it took Preston ages just to find Gemma and I.”

Louis swallows, “It’s no one’s fault. Maybe it’s nothing serious,” His gut is telling him that he’s very incorrect, he shouldn’t keep his hopes up. He tries to ignore it. No one needs the negativity, not him, not Anne, not anyone. “Do you know what hospital they’re taking him to?” he asks. The words spewing out of his mouth don’t sound right, misplaced even, it’s a question he never thought he would hear himself asking.

“They’re taking him to Mercy Vale. Preston is going to drive Gemma and I. I’m sure you can ride with us if you’d like. I don’t know where Niall and Liam are though sweetheart, I’m sorry.”

Louis waves her apologies away with a hand gesture. “No, it’s fine. I’ll find a way to get there. You should leave now, if you want to meet the ambulance there.”

It wouldn’t be a problem riding to the hospital with Anne. Gemma on the other hand, despises him more than words could ever explain, which would make for an extremely awkward and uncomfortable car ride. They haven’t spoken in what must be...eight months, as soon as he ditched Harry, Gemma ditched him, understandably. Given the circumstances, they don't make anything less disappointing, the two of them were great friends, considerably best friends, but he ruined that.

When he made his choices all those days, weeks, months ago, he didn’t realize the best boyfriend, the best friends, the second best family he had ever known would all walk out of his life as soon as he slipped up.

“Of course,” she whispers, squeezing his shoulder. Tears gather in her light eyes and past the raw emotion caught in her vocal cords, she hardly manages to say, “Don’t be afraid to come to the hospital. You deserve to be there as much as anyone else. I expect to see you there, okay?”

“Anne…” he sighs, suddenly very uncertain of his status.

“No Louis,” she says and moves her hand to cradle his cheek. Her thumb brushes over his cheekbone. “Harry would want you there, I know he would, you’re his best friend.”

Louis feels guilty. This isn’t right. Anne shouldn’t be telling him any of this. Harry wouldn’t want him there, he wouldn’t, they’re not best friends, they're not even friends anymore. They’re nothing apart from bandmates, bandmates whose hatred for each other is fueled by a poorly constructed relationship that should have never happened.

He shakes his head, drawing away from her gentle touch, “No. I'm sorry, but I can’t be there.”

“Whatever happened between the two of you isn’t important. When Harry’s cleared, then go right back to avoiding each other, that’s fine, but for now, you need to be at the hospital. You know in your heart what’s right,” Anne says, eyes holding a hint of disappointment.

He thinks about what she’s saying, about letting bygones be bygones for one night, about being the bigger person, about dragging himself to the hospital and telling Harry’s he’s glad he’s okay, and he realizes she’s right. It wouldn’t kill him to be civil for one night.

Even if Harry has him escorted from the room, he can still say he tried to mend things, tried to apologize, tried to show him that he doesn’t despise him. Of course, he doubts the problem is anything life-threatening, most likely dehydration, exhaustion, influenza, something major enough to cause a scare, yet minor enough to be fixed in a few days, but he wants things to become simpler.

“Okay. I’ll be there,” he decides, meeting her eyes for a final time before she’s called away by Preston. Then, he's left standing in the hallway by himself, surrounded by the echoes of security guards and stagehands calling out orders to each other. 

His head is swimming and no one is around to help him. Having the bathroom across the way proves to be a good idea, as he originally thought, because he loses his dinner in the raunchy toilet bowl and the cool porcelain relaxes his over-worked, anguished body.


	2. I

Two hours.

He’s been sat here for two hours, one hundred and twenty minutes, seven thousand two hundred seconds, and not a word about Harry’s current condition has been spoken from any medical staff. It doesn’t matter how many nurses and receptionists anyone asks, no one seems to know if he’s stable, claiming they’ve never even heard of a patient by the name of Harry Styles, though Louis can't bring himself to believe them. Even if Harry’s admittance had been kept on the down low, surely the average nurse or doctor would have some recollection of a internationally famous pop-star being rushed in via ambulance and stuffed in one of their rooms.

It would be ridiculous to think otherwise.

Louis has sat in obscene silence and terrifying uncertainty for two hours, and by far it's been one of the hardest experiences of his life, harder than any test he's taken, harder than any audition process he's gone through, even harder than the four times his mum went into labor and he was forced against his will to sit in a hospital lobby with his grandparents. Still, his two hours aren’t even remotely comparable to the four everyone else has been here for. He hasn't a clue how anyone else is possibly feeling.

He sat in his dressing room, scrolling through old photos on his phone for the longest time, nearly an hour and a half, before finally finding motivation and deciding to make the drive to the hospital. Ideally, he didn't want to spend his night in a hospital lobby surrounded by crying families and sick patients, nor did he want to sit amongst Harry’s family and his own band mates who were still thinking the worst of him, but he convinced himself it was for Harry.

It seems Harry needs all the support he can get.

Louis' starting to believe that perhaps things aren’t as simple as he originally assumed, because, well, if Harry wasn’t severely ill, the doctor would have been out by now, strictly telling them Harry needs a remedy of bed rest and fluids for the next few days, then he’ll be set to finish the world tour.

Honestly, Louis expected to find everyone exiting the hospital in a calm manner, rather than walking in on them gathered in a corner of the lobby, holding back tears, avoiding eye contact with anything other than the floor.

Needless to say, he was unpleasantly surprised.

Anne wraps an arm around her daughter’s shoulders, tugging her close, trying to comfort her to the best of her maternal ability. Meanwhile, Gemma attempts to break the contact, but emotionally, she can’t bring herself to. She needs her mother’s love and support more than ever.

Her body lurches forward with a brash cry and Anne collects her trembling frame in her arms. “Everything's going to be alright love. There's no way it's as serious as any of us think. Harry’s strong, you know that,” her voice lacks vigor, telling Louis, as well as everyone else, she doesn’t believe a word of what she’s saying.

Louis supposes someone has to try to be positive in their current predicament, and since it can't and won’t be himself, Anne is realistically the only other option. No one would bother listening to him anyway, considering he isn’t on good terms with Harry, hasn't been on good terms with Harry in eight months, and may possibly never be on good terms with Harry again. There isn’t any reason to ask him for advice or assurance concerning the well-being of Harry Styles.

The realization stings a bit, but it’s also impossible to run from the truth.

“I know it’s just…he was in so much pain mum, like he was stabbed or something, and I…what if he died? He could have fallen off stage and - oh God,” Gemma presses her palm to her face, covering her eyes, and takes in a shaky breath of air before asking, “How can you say _it’s alright_ when he was sobbing because of the pain he was in? It isn’t alright.”   

“You don’t know that it was pain,” Louis argues, speaking for the first time since he’s arrived. Hostility and venom laces his tone as he's no longer able to help himself from offering his opinion. “And anyways, it’s done and over with. He’s getting proper care from people who know what they're doing, and that's all that matters right now.”

Liam swallows, hesitating before adding his own thoughts, “As much as I hate to say it, Louis’ right, none of us can go back and fix whatever happened out there. We have to move on because Harry is going to need our help to get past this. It’s embarrassing enough to fall on stage, but this is something completely different."

With those words, Louis nods, allowing himself to finally collect a slight sense of serenity. He has to keep his head held high.

Not another word is spoken. Not from him, not from the lads, not from anyone in their ten foot vicinity. Even their security guards haven’t managed to offer any input. Everyone’s been caught by surprise, absolutely dumbfounded, and there's nothing anyone can possibly say to erase the last couple hours, as no one knows truthfully what’s happening behind those very large, very daunting metal doors.

Gemma begins to pace, arms impatiently crossed over her chest, and her breathing heavy. She’s muttering something under her breath, again and again, something like a prayer or bible verse.

Louis isn’t well versed in religion, in fact he’s clueless when it comes to expected morals and virtue entirely. Harry was the one to introduce him to spirituality and learning how to love the small things in life. Harry was the one to invite him to church for the first time. Harry was the one who told him that no matter what religion he preferred or what religion he chose not to practice, atheist or Roman Catholic or one made on the spot, he would love him. Louis wonders if that still stands. Does Harry still love him despite the awful, ignorant choices he's made in the span of the past eight months?

Gemma anxiously treads back and forth for what's close to five minutes before finally, Louis can’t take her skittish movement any longer. He stands, takes her forearm in his hand, and guides her to take a seat in the empty chair beside his. "Don't touch me!" she tries to fight the hold he has on her, but his grip tightens and his eyes soften, and she instantaneously relaxes.

The commotion in her head freezes instantly. Nothing has been steady in hours, except Louis’ concerned baby blue irises, steady like a breezy day on the beach, steady like a stallion freely galloping, steady like a relaxed heart beat. He understands how she’s feeling, and truthfully he wants to exploit his internal state in the same manner, but he won’t allow himself to break in front of everyone. “I know it’s scary, but you have to calm down Gems.”

“Says who? You?” she mocks. Her weak voice transforms into a bout of forced laughter, abruptly halted by sobs, sobs that seize her entire body. She covers her face to shield the tears from being seen.

Louis holds onto her, tugging her against his chest, as he rubs her back. Trembling against his touch, her tears bring moisture to his neck. “I’m sorry Louis I don’t mean to lean on you for support I just -” A cry leaves her mouth, leaving her unable to continue.

He shushes her. “You don’t have to apologize. I understand completely, okay? Please, don’t apologize,” he brings his hand to the top of her scalp and brushes his fingers through her pastel pink hair in a protective, brotherly way. A way he's seen Harry console her time after time. “Like your mum said, he’s going to be just fine. He’s been stressed and hasn’t been sleeping very well. This was bound to happen.”

She pulls away from him and their eyes meet for a brief second. Her cheeks are stained with tears and mascara. She's incapable of holding her head up with the amount of distress her body’s experiencing. “I knew something wasn’t right earlier in the day, but I just thought he was having an off day. I thought he was tired, he's always so tired, so I just assumed - fuck, I'm such an idiot! I should have...there had to be something I could’ve done to help him.”

“Gemma…” Louis whispers, pressing two fingers under her chin, and lifts her head up. “Look at me. There wasn’t anything you could have done differently. He was going to perform no matter what, nothing will ever stop him from performing.”

Niall slips into the seat beside her. Placing a hand on her back, he sighs, indirectly agreeing with Louis, “Harry pushes his boundaries all the time, you know? He's performed through being ill, losing his voice, breaking his foot, and to be honest with you I’m surprised it’s taken this long for something really bad to happen.”

“That doesn’t make me feel any better,” Gemma deadpans, wiping her bloodshot eyes with her shirtsleeve.

Niall hesitates, withdrawing his hand from her back, “Sorry I thought - “

She stands, interrupting his train of thought, “I’m going to go clean myself up. I’ll be right back.” As soon as she starts to walk away, she turns back around to face Louis and her mum, “If there’s any news come get me, okay?"

“Of course dear. But remember, everything's going to be alright,” Anne offers a weak smile. Gemma only shakes her head at her mother’s poor attempt to lighten the mood and wipes at her eyes once more before disappearing down one of many seemingly endless corridors.

“I didn’t mean to upset her anymore.” Niall says, slumping back against the plastic seat, as he still tries to process what exactly he said wrong, or insensitively.  

“It’s not your fault,” Anne reassures, reaching across the chair aisle to squeeze his kneecap, “It’s been a rough couple of hours for everyone. All of our emotions are a bit raw and no one knows quite how to react, but everything’s going to be okay. We’re all in a panic right now, but once we see Harry’s okay we’ll all have a good laugh about this.”

_Everything's going to be okay_. It's quite a bold statement when everyone is near tears or forced mute by the unknown, but Louis wants to believe her more than anything.

He knows Anne is trying to be the strong, mature adult of the situation, and presumably concealed each time she reaches into her purse for a bottle of Valium, but her stature is visibly crumbling by the minute and when he looks at her next she’s in tears.

He chooses not to draw attention to it.

Minutes later, he hears his name being called from behind where he’s sat. “Louis?” His eyes are met with the comforting sight of his mum and his eldest younger sister, Lottie, as soon as he turns his head. Lou Teasdale, One Direction’s one and only hair and makeup stylist, files in behind them.

It takes everything in Louis to keep himself from running over to them. He doesn’t want to cause a scene, or a bigger scene than what's already been created. They don’t need anymore unnecessary attention as they already are three-fourths of a world famous boyband sitting in a hospital lobby.

Instead, he waits for them to sulk over. Once his mum is in close enough distance, he stands and embraces her tighter than ever before. Although his gut is telling him to question their arrival because it's not him who's unwell, he can't bring himself to. He's never been happier to see his family in his life.

“Oh god Louis,” his mum whispers, kissing the top of his head no less than a million times, and sags against him. They stay like this for a few minutes before she places her hands on his shoulders, prying them apart, and glances at him from arms length away. “Lou told us what happened. Is there any news? Is he okay?"

Louis shakes his head. "No one has been out to speak with us yet."

"Oh goodness," Jay runs her hand through the loose strands of hair that haven't stayed put in her ponytail. "Are you okay poppet?”

“I...I’m fine mum,” Louis whispers, though his voice tells the complete opposite, which isn’t surprising. He's never been well off with telling lies to his mum. “I’m still in shock, I guess. None of this feels real.”

“I know love, but everything’s going to be alright,” she promises, pressing her lips to his forehead. He inhales her scent. It’s refreshing, sturdy, and reminds him of home. She’s worn the same perfume for as long as he can remember. “Harry’s a fighter, remember that. I’m going to check on Anne. I’ll be back over in a moment.”

He doesn't understand why she's trying to fill him with hope and assurance. Harry is nothing to him aside from some chap he happens to sing in a band with and travel the world alongside. They're not even friends, yet his mother is here, trying to make _him_ feel better. Sure, she's always been close with Harry, even after he and Louis broke up she would send him texts on occasion, and Anne's been one of her best friends since they first met, so he supposes it makes sense that she's here, but it makes absolutely no sense for her to offer support towards him.

Jay sits beside Anne. Louis doesn’t pay much attention to the interaction between the two of them, but does happen to notice when Anne loses the control she had over her emotions, beginning to cry, and Jay pulls her into the tightest hug she can manage. It’s heartbreaking to see Anne cry, and it being over Harry makes it much worse.

Louis has to turn away. As soon as he does, Lottie wraps her arms around his torso. “I’m so sorry” is the only thing she says, over and over.

“It’s okay Lotts,” he shuts his eyes and allows for his sister to make him feel more at home, despite the scent of bleach and the brave words of doctors and cries of families encasing them.

Lottie pulls away from him and touches his cheek with a soft, gentle caress. She isn’t crying, but her lipstick and eyeliner are smeared across her sun-kissed complexion. She must have cried on the ride here, but she’s faking this remarkable strength for everyone. She loves Harry, and Louis would dare to say at times, Lottie loves Harry more than himself at times.

“I love you,” she says, though the words come across as a promise. She’s going to love him through this entire journey, no matter what, and that’s enough to make the guilt begin to fade. He feels guilty for many things. Guilty for refusing to mend things with Harry, for not caring about him until today, for losing his best friend without putting effort in to make things better, for not being able to tolerate him.

His lips tautly pull into a half smile. “I love you too.” his voice is weak as he's hardly holding himself together. He knows he isn’t going to be able to stay strong with all of this strange attention. He doesn't deserve attention, the love, the support, none of it. Not right now.

“Hey Lottie, come here for a second!” Liam calls to her, waving her over with a simple hand gesture. Louis glances over his shoulder at him.

It’s Liam’s version of a favor. He also knows if Louis spends too much time absorbing this attention, his walls will bust and a flood of tears will follow and there’ll be no sealing him back together. Once the first tear falls, there will be no stopping the rest of them, and no one is emotionally prepared for Louis crying as he's always been the strongest in bad situations.   

Louis would thank him if he weren’t so withdrawn.

“Excuse me. Apparently, I’m needed over there,” Lottie brushes past him and walks over to stand with Liam and Niall. From what Louis can see and hear past his blurred vision and vicious heartbeat, Niall grabs her hand and Liam says something along the lines of “give Louis time to relax”.

He’s grateful for his bandmates. They know him too well, and the fact that they're no longer treating him with cold shoulders, makes him feel a tad better.

When he turns to face forward again, his eyes catch Lou leaning her weight against the back of one of the many, many plastic chairs in the lobby. With her pale complexion and wobbly stance, she looks as though she was physically ill moments earlier. Louis doesn’t doubt it. She's also very close with Harry.

She’s watching Louis, though, and her grip tightens on the chair. Their eyes meet and her body rises and falls with a hefty breath.

Louis approaches. He stands in front of her, leaving only the dreaded hospital chair as a divider between the two of them, and says, “Thank you for making sure my mum and Lottie got here safely.”

“You know I would do anything for Lottie,” Lou whispers and hesitates with her next thought. "How is he? Is he - ”

“I don’t know yet,” Louis answers, honestly.

Lou raises a perfectly shaped eyebrow. “A doctor hasn’t been out to speak with you yet?”

“I’m as surprised as you are,” Louis draws in a shaky breath.

“That has to be a good sign though, right?” Lou offers, “If they’re taking their time with him than it must not be too serious.”

Or it’s the complete opposite. Hospitals don't usually work in the optimistic way Lou seems to think they do. Louis pinches the bridge of his nose in frustration. She has a point, but everything is already jumbled in his head and that statement only puzzles him further. “Maybe, yeah," he agrees, sighing as he adds on, “I wish I knew what was happening behind those doors.”

“I understand,” Her heels click against the tile floor as she rounds the chair to stand near him and squeezes his shoulder, “but no matter what happens he’s going to be okay.”

“Everyone keeps saying that. Be honest with me, Lou, please. I need someone to be honest with me. Do you sincerely believe he’s going to be okay?" She gives him a look, questioning his motives. He wasn't very nice to Harry leading up to today's incident, therefore the change of heart is quite sudden. "I need him to be okay so I can apologize. I want to talk things through, and I think this would be a good place to start."

"You think a hospital is a good place to sort your problems out? You're out of your mind," Lou drops her hand back down to rest at her side and continues on with a candid statement, “but I’ll cut the bullshit and tell you what you need to hear. I don’t know if he's going to be okay. No one knows but the doctors, so we can hope and pray that he’s okay, but that doesn’t make it so. You need to be prepared for whatever the doctors may come and tell you. It could be something as simple as exhaustion.”

“But you think differently,” Louis implies.

“It’s not that I think differently,” she corrects, lowering her voice to keep Anne from overhearing, “I just think that if it were exhaustion or dehydration there would have been more signs. Was he a bit off today?” she asks, rhetorically. As Louis goes to reply, she answers herself, “Yes, he wasn't quite himself today, but that's not enough to make me think either of those things were affecting him.”

Louis eyes wander her face as if judging her intellect. “What do you think is wrong him then?”

“I’m not a doctor, I couldn’t tell you, but I hope I’m wrong,” she replies.

Louis starts to ask her what she means, but before he gets the chance, she slips past him and walks over to Anne and his mum. She gives her condolences to Anne, sinking into the seat beside her, and rests her hand on Anne's thigh as she listens to her talk with soft eyes.

He’s left standing by himself.

There’s a sudden scream that comes from the opposing end of the lobby and everyone’s head snaps up to gaze in that direction. A woman clutches onto the doctor standing in front of her as she screams “no” over and over again.

The scene makes his skin crawl. He secretly hopes he won’t be feeling the same way when the bloody doctor finally comes out to greet them. He loathes hospitals. Being in one makes him extremely unsettled, but knowing he’s here for his ex-boyfriend, someone he has to mend things with, makes everything ten times worse.

Gemma finds her way back from the bathroom, looking better than when she first excused herself, and gives Louis a questioning glance.

“The doctor still hasn’t been out,” he answers.

Gemma’s head rolls back and a groan falls from between her lips. “Seriously?”

“Seriously,” Louis confirms.

“How long does it take to give a fucking diagnosis?” she snaps, crossing her arms over her chest. “We’ve been here for at least four hours and they still don’t know what’s wrong with him? What kind of shitty fucking hospital is this?”

“ _Gemma,_ ” Anne scolds.

Gemma quickly apologizes, then returns her focus back to Louis, “I can’t believe it takes four hours to come speak to a patient’s family. What ever happened to common courtesy?”

“Maybe they’re still running tests?” Louis tries.

“They better be doing something productive,” Gemma says, threateningly. Her tone intimidates Louis. Only a little, he tries to tell himself, but that’s one of the worst lies he’s tried to convince himself of.

Gemma is scary when she’s angry. He’s been around for long enough to see her temper unfold and he honestly wouldn’t want to purposely get on her bad side. Somehow he’s been lucky and hasn’t annoyed her to that point. Even despite what happened between him and her brother, she's yet to yell and curse at him.

Harry’s told him enough stories about their sibling rivalry. His favorite is the one about them fighting over the television remote, which ended with two broken fingers on Harry's end. Though not all was bad as Harry gained control over the television for the next two months due to Gemma’s punishment.

A smile spans across his face, but falters when he thinks about present day Harry. All he wants to know is if he’s okay. After all, Harry is the only person he’s ever loved, the only person who's ever been able to make his worst day his best, the person who made him smile through his tears, and yet he still threw him away as though he didn't matter.

Harry is one of a kind and he needs for him to be okay. He needs to make things right between them.  

As the worst scenarios pass through his mind, he begins to feel light-headed and feels the urge to lose the contents of his stomach. He needs to take a seat before his dinner splashes all over the floor.

Gemma places a tender hand on his back, “Come on. Let’s sit. We don’t need another one of you in the hospital,” she leads him to a row of empty seats and sits in one adjacent to him. “You alright?”

“Yeah, fine. I’m fine, just a bit nervous,” he says, running a shaky hand through his shaggy hair, “Why wouldn’t I be? It’s not like Harry’s in the bloody hospital.”

She ignores the sarcasm. “Just promise me you’ll be okay.”

"I promise, I’m fine. This shouldn't even be about me,” Louis takes her hand. They sit like that for the longest time; her clammy hand in his, fingers intertwined, with eyes narrowed down on their laps.

Finally, after a silence passes over everyone, a doctor eventually pushes through the doors and stands at the opposing end of the waiting room. “Family and friends of Harry Styles?”

“Here,” Louis says before anyone else can even think to answer. He releases Gemma’s hand, standing to greet the doctor. Anne and Gemma follow suit, rising to their feet. "I'm Louis, Louis Tomlinson. One of Harry's friends," Part of him forgets that he no longer has any sort of significance in Harry's life. He forgets that Harry isn't his, and so he probably should not have introduced himself before Harry's immediate family.

Though, no one bothers to correct him.

The doctor strides over with wide, confident steps. Louis instantly doesn’t like the cockiness and self-assurance he carries, but has no other choice but to respect the middle-aged man. He’s going to inform him of what he's craved to know for hours.

Anne shakes the doctor's hand first. “I’m Harry’s mother, Anne, and this is his sister Gemma," she gestures to the small crew accumulated in the last few hours. "These guys are all friends of his.”

“Hello. Dr. Carmichael. Pleasure to meet you all,” He shakes Gemma’s hand and Louis’ directly after, “If you don’t mind, I’d like to pull you aside to a private conference room, Louis, Anne, where you both may be more comfortable discussing Harry’s diagnosis."

"What?" Louis asks, bewildered, as he turns to face Anne.

"You're listed on the medical forms as his medical power of attorney. I'm allowed to disclose information to you and his mother," Dr. Carmichael explains, looking over the forms to double check himself, "Tomlinson, correct?"

Louis nods wearily.

"Oh dear. Harry must not have had the time to take your name off the forms," Anne whispers, nervously tugging at the cross pendant that rests below the base of her throat.

Dr. Carmichael peers over the top of his glasses, suspicious of the discomfort evolving in front of him, "Is there a problem?"

Why would Harry never take the time to fix something as serious as this? "No, not at all. Continue," Louis says instead.

They had decided to become each other's power of attorney years ago, considering they would be on the road with one another for the majority of the following years and their mums commended them for it, but since their split Louis had responsibly changed his from Harry back to his mum. Why hadn't Harry done the same? Did he deem it unnecessary? Perhaps he still trusted Louis to make medical decisions on his behalf?

"Wonderful," Dr. Carmichael clears his throat. He sounds anything but pleased. "As I was saying before if you'd like to join me for a more disclosed conversation, we do have a private conference room."

Louis’ stomach drops. The diagnosis must be serious if it's to be confidentially discussed with the person whose name is scribbled over Harry’s medical forms.

Telling by the look that spans across Gemma’s face, she knows it isn’t good news either.

Louis places a hand on her shoulder to steady her. “I don’t think that will be necessary. Everyone here is practically family,” he swallows, thick, “but if you insist on talking to me and Harry’s mum in private then I want Harry’s sister and my mum there as well.”

Dr. Carmichael adjusts his glasses, “Anne, is it okay if everyone is here while I discuss Harry’s situation?”

“I would prefer it,” Anne answers, honest.

“Well then,” Dr. Carmichael glances down at the paperwork for a second time, “you'll probably want to be seated for this.”

Gemma’s eyes widen as she shifts to stare at Louis, whisper-shouting, "What does he mean by that? This isn't some fucking rollercoaster! This is my brother's health."

“It’s okay. Just hear him out, yeah?” Louis takes a seat, wrapping his hand around her wrist, and urges her to have a seat as well. She does, only after Louis continues to assure her, “It’ll be okay, but you have to sit down first.”

Anne remains skeptical as she stands until Jay mimics Louis' course of action, forcing her to have a seat. As soon as Anne’s sat down, Lou and Jay take either one of her hands in their own, squeezing tightly, “How is my Harry?” she asks, tone pleading for good news.

Dr. Carmichael hesitates for a second, then nods and begins. He has a monotonous personality, and he’s rather discourteous about it as well. No bedside manner at all. “Well,” he says, pinpointing all of his attention on Anne. It irritates Louis. He deserves some of that attention, but then he realizes how silly the thought is. He’s being selfish, after all, Harry is her son. Gemma’s hand tightens around his, again. “there’s no easy way to go about telling you any of this, but Harry suffered from a stroke and -”

As soon as the word “stroke” falls out of the doctor’s impolite mouth, Louis feels faint. Though, he isn’t sure if it’s from the revelation itself or from the amount of feeling Gemma’s squeezing out of his hand.

“Fuck,” he whispers, breathing hard. His vision blurs with impending tears as his heart pounds against his sternum. He can't hear the rest of the doctor's diagnosis outside of the blood pumping against his eardrums, the guilt and remorse crushing his thoughts, and the tinge of raw emotions coursing through his entirety.

He hopes, even prays, the crippling reality of the situation isn’t as bad as it sounds, though as soon as he feels his heart sink, he knows the truth. It is as bad as it sounds. After all, this is no longer the wonderfully exaggerated life of a multi-millionaire rock-star, but in fact reality and reality doesn't rely on miracles or rare opportunities, only leads to tragedy and misfortune.

He remembers his granddad having a small stroke a few years ago and despite not recalling exactly what happened, he knows his granddad struggled with fine motor skills and speech for months after. He still struggles with various skills to this very day.

None of this makes sense to him. At all. Harry is young and healthy. Assuming as he does, he thought strokes were something older, uncared for people had and Harry isn’t either of those things.

He’s able to get his emotions and mental state under control and settled, for the most part, until Anne reacts. Her reaction is what makes him lose any sense of control he possessed previously. Her cry fills everyone’s ears, despite her weak attempt to conceal it, and Louis cries only then. He shuts his eyes to keep it inconspicuous, but the hot tears squeeze past his eyelids and flow down his cheeks. He uses his free hand is to wipe them away before anyone comments.

“A stroke?” Gemma squeaks out. She’s, surprisingly, the only one who manages to take charge of the conversation without sounding like a incoherent, blubbering mess. “Isn’t that...no, no, no you have it wrong. You must have the wrong Harry. He didn’t have a stroke.”

Dr. Carmichael sighs. “He did, unfortunately.”

“But how? Is he okay?” Gemma snaps. “What the hell does that even mean? A stroke! We are talking about my twenty two year old brother here right?”

“It was a subarachnoid hemorrhagic stroke caused from an aneurysm,” The doctor explains, slowly, but the speed at which he explains it doesn’t help Louis understand it anymore. Those are large words which only makes the incoherence in his head worsen.

Anne shakes her head, “Pardon? What does any of that mean?”

“Of course,” Dr. Carmichael nods, clearing his throat. Louis tries to keep his displeasure for the man hidden. It’s not important right now, after all, Harry is the only one who matters. “An aneurysm is the bursting of an artery, in Harry’s case, the artery was in his brain and the blood from the artery usually spills into the space between the skull and the surface of his brain, stopping regular blood flow, which causes the stroke.”

Gemma latches onto the doctor's use of the word usually. “But it didn’t in Harry’s case?”

“It did, but somehow his aneurysm wasn’t a complete bursting of the artery. It was a rupture that managed to seal itself back up. It’s a miracle. He would have died had the artery not sealed itself. I’ve only seen it happen one other time.”

Louis doesn’t know if he would consider that a miracle. Harry still had a stroke, no matter what way he decides he looks at it, and yeah, of course he’s thrilled that Harry is at least alive, but he doesn’t know how he is or where he is. He can’t consider it a miracle, not yet.

Louis finally finds his voice to ask a question. “What caused the aneurysm?”

Jay glances towards him and offers a weak, watery smile.

“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. I had Harry’s medical work faxed over, but I didn’t see any history of normal risk factors for aneurysms, which are usually heart problems and diabetes, from what I see Harry is an extremely healthy young man. Does he smoke or drink excessively?”

Louis shakes his head. “He doesn’t smoke and I mean...he has a few drinks here and there, but he isn't one for getting shit-faced every night. Once in awhile, maybe.”

Dr. Carmichael records Louis’ answer on his clipboard, “Interesting. What about history of aneurysm and stroke in the family?”

“Not anyone I can think of, not even on my ex-husband’s side of the family,” Anne sniffles. Lou rubs gentle circles against the top of her hand with her thumb.

“Even if there's not a family history, there could very well be a genetic mutation within Harry's arteries. It's something we'll have to look farther into," Dr. Carmichael explains. "Can you tell me about his blood pressure? I didn’t see a history of high blood pressure, but there are other factors that contribute. Does Harry have any problems with stress or his diet?”

Louis shuts his eyes, sighing in response to that question. Everyone knows the answer. He’s more than stressed, if there was a word for a level higher than stressed, it would be the one Louis would use to describe Harry.  “Do you think we can discuss this later? I’d like to know what kind of state my friend is in, if you don't mind.”

Dr. Carmichael glances at Louis over the top of his glasses. “Is that alright Anne?”

“Yes. Whatever Louis wants is fine,” Anne whispers.

“Very well. Harry is stable, for the most part, and conscious. I’ve administered medication to lower the pressure in his brain and another to lower his blood pressure and one more to prevent his blood vessels from expanding,” he explains, “Louis, since you are in charge of his medical decisions, there will be forms I’ll need you to sign, one of them concerning a procedure called endovascular coiling, which I will explain to you in private, later.”

Louis raises an eyebrow. “Procedure? Like surgery? You want to perform brain surgery on - “

“Not exactly. It's hardly brain surgery. As I said, I’ll explain it to you in privacy. I imagine it’s something Harry would like to keep confidential,” Dr. Carmichael expresses, pursing his lips together.

Louis glances towards Anne. She nods at him, as if telling him to listen to the doctor, and Louis sighs, choosing not to push the matter any further, “That’s fine. How is he?”

There’s hesitation on Dr. Carmichael’s end of the conversation and that’s when everyone moves to sit on the edge of their seats. The hesitation isn't a good thing, at all, which Dr. Carmichael proves even further when he says, “I haven’t had much time to assess the level of brain damage. He only regained consciousness twenty minutes ago.”

Gemma’s the one to question the doctor, “Brain damage?”

“He was lucky that the artery sealed itself back up, but there was still a period of irregular blood flow, causing some bleeding in his brain. He’s showing signs of paralysis on the right side of his body.”

Louis slumps back against the chair, muttering a string of curses under his breath, and shakes his head in disbelief. This isn’t happening. This didn’t fucking happen to Harry. Not healthy, charismatic, loving, gentle, kind Harry.

“What does that fucking mean?” Gemma nearly shrieks.

Dr. Carmichael remains calm. He’s been in this career path long enough to know how to deal with distressed families and that’s by staying calm and answering all of their questions to the best of his own ability. “His aneurysm happened in the left side of his brain, so the right side of his body has been affected. Mainly signs of facial paralysis, but there’s some stiffness in his right arm and leg, which also may be a symptom of paralysis. Also, you need to understand that there's a possibility of memory loss and behavioral changes.”

Louis’ mouth falls open. He can hardly form words, instead a scoff pushes past his lips, “You’re joking!” he laughs, “That’s a good one. That’s a real fucking good one pal. Where is he? Where the fuck is Harry? We’re leaving.”

The boys and Lottie stare at him in disbelief.

“Louis. Sweetheart listen to the doctor,” Jay coaxes, calm.

Louis shakes his head. “No mum. Where is he? We need to get him of here and get a second opinion.”

Anne’s in tears again, sobbing against her palm, and Lou has her wrapped up in a hug. Pressing her chin to the top of Anne’s head, she rocks her back and forth. “Shh Anne. He’s okay. He’s going to be okay.”  

“Louis, stop it!” Gemma snaps at him. All the progress they made concerning their relationship has suddenly disintegrated. “Nobody needs this shit right now. My brother just had a fucking stroke and you’re...”

He doesn’t catch the rest of what she says. It’s her words that hit him the hardest, stealing the air from his lungs. Harry seriously had a stroke. He stares at Gemma wide-eyed, mouth agape, eyebrows knitted together all because this really just happened. This is truly happening.  “I...no, this isn’t right. It didn't happen to Harry,” he mutters.

“We’ll discuss treatment options later. Physical therapy and speech therapy will most likely be your best options,” Dr. Carmichael dismisses himself. “You can go see Harry if you’d like. He’s in room 334, and a nurse will be there for further instruction when you go up to visit him. I'll be around to speak with you about physical therapy and treatments at a later time,” he disappears down the same corridor in which he appeared from.

Louis’ head is spinning, in fact the room is spinning, and it isn’t until Liam has him by the shoulders and shakes him that he finds his focus, “Louis, mate, c’mon stop.”

“Liam,” His breath catches in throat. It feels like all of the air is being squeezed out of his lungs. The truth is deceiving him. Harry had a stroke. That can’t be true. Harry is the healthiest person he knows with all of those eating habits and juice cleanses. The fucking juice cleanses should have kept him from having a stroke, shouldn't they?

"What is it?" Liam asks, concerned.

Harry is the epitome of strength. Harry couldn’t have had a stroke. “I can’t...fuck,” he spits.

“Just breathe mate. Breathe for me,” Liam encourages, exaggerating his own breathing to try and get Louis to follow his rhythm. “You’ve got to breathe for me. It’s not going to do Harry any good to have you laid up in the room next door to his, is it? Everything is going to be okay. The doctor said we can go see him, right? You’ve just got to catch your breath first.”

And the thing is, Louis’ trying to steady his breathing, he really is, but it’s hard when he knows everything is not okay. No matter how many people tell him it’s okay, he doesn’t believe them. If everything was okay, Harry wouldn’t have had a stroke.

Little wheezes start to leave his parted lips and they sound kind of comical, honestly, but now is not the time or place to poke fun at himself. “Calm down Lou. I’m here. It’s okay. You’re okay,” Liam hugs him, making him feel a bit better. He buries his face against Liam’s shoulder as the younger boy rubs circles against his back.

Sagging against Liam, a sob breaks between his wheezes, “Shh. I’m here. You’re okay,” Liam presses his lips to the side of his head. “Deep breaths, alright? I've got you. Try to relax for me."

Gradually, Louis regains his breath and stature. “I’m sorry, God, I'm so fucking sorry,” he apologizes, voice hoarse, "I don't even know why I'm upset."

Liam only shakes his head. “After that kind of news, you’re entitled to be upset, and you’re handling it well. Now, come on, do you want to go see H?”

Louis nods. “Yeah,” With a glance around the group accumulated for Harry, he notices everyone’s eyes on him, except for Anne, who's still terribly distraught and hardly able to keep her head upright. Gemma’s knelt down in front of her, hands on her her knees, whispering some words of encouragement.

It takes five minutes for everyone to pick their hearts up off the floor and walk down the hall to the lift. Lottie steps closer to Louis once in the elevator, reaching for his hand and intertwining their fingers. “Are you okay?”

“Better than I was a few minutes ago, but I don’t know how long it’ll last,” Louis says, truthful. No sarcasm, no teasing, no bullshit, all sincerity. “I’ve got a bundle of nerves right in me stomach. Think I might puke." _Again_ , he thinks to himself.

"It'll be okay. Mum was saying it's a lot to take in, but Harry's probably doing better than any of us imagine, so just think of that."

Louis squeezes her hand. "Thank you."

The elevator dings and the doors slide open once on the third floor. Louis swallows harshly as soon as he steps out. Any sense of relaxation he may have felt has disappeared, though it was never quite there to begin with.

They’re on the neurology floor. Scents of bleach and rubbing alcohol fill his nostrils, smelling far more sterile than the lobby, and he can now say these are smells that will haunt him with memories of this awful place.

“334 is that way,” Gemma announces, pointing to the sign that lists the room numbers and their directions. 320-340 is displayed on the sign with an arrow pointing to the left hallway.

She leads the way and soon enough they arrive at the nurses station across from room 334. Upon being asked, a nurse explains since Harry’s not very coherent he can only have two people, at one time, in the room, and they should also refrain from having too many faces coming and going. The last thing he needs is to feel overwhelmed.

A fairly compact lobby is straight down the hallway. There's two rows of chairs, facing inward, with ten chairs in each row. The nurse instructs everyone to go sit in the lobby as they decide visitors. Anne doesn't follow as she rightfully takes on the responsibility of seeing Harry first by herself.

She's in his room for nearly ten minutes, and absolute silence has passed over the rest of them in the lobby. There's nothing to say, nothing to make the situation better, nothing to take any pressure off, and it's bothering Louis, deeply. He's always been able to fix situations he's been in by talking through it, but this is not one of those times he can use the power of eloquence to heal the ache felt by those he's currently surrounded by and most importantly, Harry.

Speaking of Harry, what will he say to him when it comes time to visit him? Is Harry's memory even in tact?  Maybe he can start with an apology, though that might not be the most appropriate. Their troubled relationship is hardly a problem compared to the stroke Harry suffered from tonight. It's odd to think of those two things correlating; A stroke and Harry. It doesn't make any sense to say Harry had a stroke. It doesn't sound right slipping off the tip of his tongue.

He can see the tabloids now. _22 year old One Direction singer, Harry Styles, suffers stroke mid-concert: Is this the end of One Direction?_  God forbid anyone show respect towards his well-being. Obviously being in a boyband and pacifying fans is much more important than having good health.

Anne steps out of Harry's hospital room, walking to where everyone is sat with cautious footsteps. Louis feels his breath hitch. She looks uneasy, why does she look so uneasy? It must be bad if she walking towards them with such unease and hesitance.

"What's wrong? Is it- is he okay?" Gemma asks, rising to her feet. Her chest heaves with breaths that too closely resemble wheezes.

Anne doesn't answer, focus entirely on Louis, "He's asking for you, Louis. Will you come see him?"

"Me?" Louis asks.

"Him?" Gemma furrows her eyebrows.

"I don't..." Anne sighs. "Will you please come see him? He's very persistent."

Louis doesn't understand. Harry hates him, or so he thought, "Is his memory alright? I'm not going to walk in there and pretend that we're still dating. I'm sorry, but that's not happening."

"His memory is fine. Whatever happened between the two of you isn't important right now, so please. Come talk to him." Anne looks exhausted, absolutely wrecked. She needs the support.

Louis knows he has to do it for her.

He doesn't have a problem doing that. Harry doesn't intimidate him, but the fact that he's so unwell, yet completely aware of where he and Louis stand, and _still_ wants to see him makes Louis anxious. Out of everyone that's come to see him, his sister and best friends, he still wants to see Louis, someone who's treated him poorly for months now, in a time of explicit need.

Gemma glances at him and sighs. “Go in there with my mum. Take care of her, okay? We'll be waiting here.”

“Are you sure Gem, I mean if you- “

She cuts him off with a wave of her hand. “If he wants to see you that badly, it's important you see him.”

“Tell H we’re thinking of him and we’ll see him as soon as we can,” Niall says.

Louis nods. “Of course.” he meets Gemma’s eyes momentarily before following Anne back down the hall and slipping into the compact room.

As soon as he steps foot into the room, his heart slams against his sternum and his head pulsates. It isn’t the machines Harry’s hooked up to that frighten him, though there is quite a few, it’s Harry’s actual appearance.

His complexion is pale and his hair is matted to his scalp and those characteristics are strange enough because Harry’s always been vain when it’s come to his appearance. He’s known for putting hours of effort into looking good, but laying in bed as he is, and wearing a flimsy, puke green colored gown and greasy hair is far from what Louis has seen him look like in years.

Louis can also see what Dr. Carmichael meant by facial paralysis. Harry’s lips are parted, which seems normal, but the right corner of his mouth is drooping and his right eye appears ever so slightly sunken in.

A feeling of nausea passes over Louis and tears gather in his eyes again. He doesn’t know how to deal with seeing Harry like this. To make matters worse, he’s lethargic and disoriented, doesn’t even acknowledge Anne or Louis, and his eyes wander as he studies the tiled ceiling.

“Harry,” Louis says his name, but it doesn’t draw his attention. He starts to step closer to Harry, but Anne grabs his shoulder, bringing him to a complete halt.

She interrupts him by saying, "He's not understanding things very well, so take it slow with him."

“I’ll be careful,” he tiptoes over to stand beside the hospital bed. “Harry,” he tries again. There still isn't a response, not even a glance in his direction.

Harry has a nasal cannula wrapped around his ears and plugged into his nostrils. His head is propped up, but he’s having trouble keeping still. He’s trembling, either from fear or cold, and Louis wants to tell him to calm down, he'll try to make it all better, but he knows it's not his place.

With the next call of his name, Louis grazes his fingers along his forehead, assuming contact may assist him with obtaining his attention, “Harry? C’mon, it's Louis. You said you wanted to see me.”

It works, to his surprise, pulling Harry’s isolation and attention to the ceiling away. He shifts his head to look at Louis, laying his head sideways on the pillow. His eyebrows furrow together and he makes an attempt to talk, but a quiet slur is all that comes out. Even without Harry's verbal acknowledgement Louis knows with the look that crosses his eyes he knows who he is.

Though, he feels a urge to ask, “Hey…” he whispers, brushing Harry’s tangled hair off his forehead. “Do you know who I am?”

Harry groans, fluttering his eyelids, and reaches for Louis’ hand with his left.

“I'm going to take that as a yes,” Louis whispers, grabs his hand, squeezes, and settles into the seat beside the bed. Harry takes his hand and brings it to his face as if showing him what’s happened. “Yeah, I heard. Has the doctor been in to speak with you?”

Deep down he knows he shouldn't be holding Harry's hand, he's taking advantage of the situation, but they mold together almost perfectly. It feels right, and seems to be what Harry wants. That's all that really matters, making Harry comfortable.

Harry nods, saying something Louis can't quite understand.

He doesn't like seeing Harry this way, at all, but he still tries to smile and nod as though he understands. His knuckles rub against Harry’s cheek and Harry presses his face to his touch, shutting his eyes.

The intimate setting doesn't last because suddenly Harry grows very agitated and tries to push Louis off with what very little strength he has. Loud groans start to leave his mouth, and Louis feels his stomach drop. He can't talk. Every one of those groans leaving Harry's mouth are meant to be an individual word, but he can't talk. Harry can't produce a comprehensible word.

Louis moves away so he and Harry aren't touching at all. He doesn't have a clue what he’s trying to say and again, there's nothing he can say or do to make it better.

Harry rapidly searches the room, eyes widening when he sees Anne, “Mmm…” he tries, reaching out for her, “Mmm...”

“That's it. There you go,” Louis gazes over his shoulder at Anne, motioning for her to come see Harry. This has to be one of the most heartbreaking things he's ever had to witness. The guy can't even call out for his mother. “Anne, he wants you.”

It doesn't take any negotiation or pleading to have Anne walk over, but when she does she completely breaks as soon as she lays eyes on Harry. Louis can't even imagine what it was like when she walked in for the first time. He's surprised no one had to come pick her up off the floor.

Harry eyes study her. He tries to sit up, but he can't. His eyebrows crease together and he tries again, but he’s still incapable of pushing himself into a sitting position. The agitation hits a new level, then he's forcing too much pressure on his body, as he tries to properly get up. Louis wonders if he understands what being paralyzed on one side of his body entails, or perhaps he's just not coherent enough to remember that he's ill.

“No, no, no,” Louis rushes to say and places a flat hand on Harry’s chest, gently pushing him to lay down. “You're sick! Harry, you're very, very sick, and you need to relax before you make it worse. Lay back, it's okay.”

"Mmm...” Harry whines, shoving Louis' hand off with his left one.

Anne realizes that she's causing her son’s distress. She leans down and wraps her arms around him. “I'm sorry baby. I didn’t mean to upset you,” she whispers.

Harry groans against her, using his left arm to hold onto her while his other stiffly lays at his side.

Louis shuts his eyes, slumping against the chair.

“It's going to be okay darling,” she presses her lips to Harry’s forehead. “I'm be right here for whatever you need," she pauses for a moment, noticing the way Harry looks at Louis. "Louis is too. This isn't the end of anything, okay?”

Louis doesn't understand anymore than when he first walked in the door. Harry hates him, therefore why would he want him to stick around for any moment of recovery? It doesn't make sense, at all. They're not on good terms, and yet Harry hasn't acted like they've been in a fight. Perhaps there is a lapse in memory.

Harry raises his eyebrows at Louis, anticipating his agreement, which he gives. Louis shakily says, hands tightly clasped together on his lap, “I'll get you anything you need.”

He should bring a comb to brush Harry’s hair. The ringlets of shiny brown hair are non-existent, instead clumps of tangles are visible, and Louis can't stand how matted and unsatisfying Harry's mane looks compared to how gorgeous it's looked in the past, on stage and during red-carpet events. It needs a good wash before anyone brushes it.

Briefly, he wonders how long Harry will be here. It's only the first day, first few hours, really, and it's already dreary and upsetting, so it's hard for him to imagine Harry having permanent residence here for anything more than a few days. Though, his gut is telling him a few days isn't going to cut it. This isn't some broken bone or illness, it's the beginning of recovery from an aneurysm.

Harry swallows, trying his hardest to wrap his lips around the formation of Louis’ name, pointing at him as he speaks, or trying to. All that comes out is the drawn out garble of an L.

"I'll give you two a moment." Anne says, leaning in to brush Harry's hair off his forehead, and presses a kiss to his hairline.

Louis' eyes dart to focus on her, "Uh...I don't think that's necessary."

"I'll be right outside," Anne replies, refusing to take no as an answer. He's being forced to have a one-sided conversation with his ex-boyfriend. His eyes follow her as she walks out of the room, and even after she's disappeared, Louis can't take his eyes off the door. He doesn't want to do this.

It isn't until Harry grazes his arm that he returns his focus to him. "I don't understand what you want from me Harry. It sucks that this happened, and I'm sorry, but this doesn't take back everything that's happened in the last year. We both have done some really awful, shitty things to each other, and some of the things we've said should have never been said, and these things...they're things that make it hard for either of us to forget," He's putting on a defensive front to hide his emotions. He tells himself he won't let Harry's situation take advantage of him.

Part of him waits for Harry's response, Harry's screaming words, Harry's crying, Harry's angry storm out of this hospital room. Part of him waits for a reenactment of fights the two of them had, fights over the silliest little things, fights over things that have never mattered, and still don't. This part of him waits until his more sensible side shines through and reminds him that Harry can't speak.

Harry can't say a word, let alone hold a conversation, and even if he could he's not in well enough shape for Louis to reprimand him. _Show him some respect_ , Louis thinks to himself. "I just want to know _why_ , and I know you can't tell me, but why do you want me here out of all the other people in your life? Your sister's here, Liam and Niall are here, Lou's here. Hell, even my mum and Lottie are here. Why do you want me?"

A deep sigh leaves Harry as he looks at Louis. There's a moment when he tries to talk again, but all that comes out is a string of mangled words, and he stops himself before gesturing between the two of them.

"I don't know what you mean, Harry. I'm sorry. I think I really ought to go," Louis starts to stand, but is stopped by a large hand sprawled across his forearm. There's not much force behind the gesture, and Louis questions it until he sees Harry trying to move his lips, and what comes out is a stroke-induced version of the word 'stay'. Louis sits back down. "I've been absolutely awful to you for months, and it kills me to know that you still want me here after all this time. What happened to you is awful, and I just don't think I should be the one...I shouldn't be the one occupying your time here, you understand that don't you?"

Harry shakes his head.

"Harry..." Louis sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose in frustration. "I know you know where we stand. It's not on good terms, whatsoever, so you would be better off forgetting I was even here tonight. You and I, we had something very special, but we don't anymore. Right now, you're very ill and you have a lot of recovery ahead of you. Maybe once you're feeling better we can talk about it, but not now. Not when you should be focused on getting better, okay?"

Again, Harry shakes his head. He tries to sit up again, but collapses back on the bed before he's made any progress. A loud groan leaves him as he stares at the ceiling. The only thought crossing Louis' mind is if he were completely able, his arms would be crossed over his chest and a agitated "fuck you" would fall out of his lips.

Louis can't help but laugh, causing Harry to turn his head and stare at him, raising an eyebrow. "Even after you've had a stroke, you are still the most stubborn human being on the face of the earth. Forget the fact that you can't move the right side of your body, you're still going to try getting up, aren't you? And then what? What's the plan after that, Styles? An army crawl through the halls of this prison?"

A lopsided smile blooms over Harry's face.

Before he has the chance to say anything else, a nurse, the same from before, steps into the room. “I'm sorry, but it's past visiting hours and I've allowed you to stay for quite some time already. You’ll be able to come back first thing in the morning.”

The nurse is right. He hadn't realized, but it's the early hours of the morning, and Harry must be exhausted. A lot has happened in the last five hours, and the clock ticking towards two a.m. represents that.

Louis reaches over to squeeze Harry's shoulder, “I'll see you around. Try to get some sleep."

Harry isn't paying attention to him, though. His eyes are caught on Anne, who's popped back into the room and stands by the doorway. She’s been crying again, judging by the way her eyes glisten under the unnatural lighting of the hospital room. Trying her hardest to conceal it from Harry, she keeps her face turned, but no matter how hard she tries, it doesn't stop Harry from sensing the distressed tension in the room.

Louis finally walks over to her, placing a hand on the small of her back, and kisses her cheek. Crying is not going to help Harry's recovery. “We’ll see Harry first thing in the morning,” he whispers.

Anne nods, directing a forced smile towards Harry. “Goodnight baby, I'll see you in the morning.”

The nurse clears her throat, smiling impatiently at them as she awaits their exit.

“Come on.” Louis whispers in Anne’s ear. He guides her out of the small hospital room and down the hall to the waiting room before she breaks down, again, far worse than before. He feels like the adult of the situation. Again, he’s the responsible one, the strong one, the one everyone is going to lean on, though this time around he isn’t sure if he’s ready for such a large responsibility.

As soon as the group gathered for Harry comes in sight, Gemma rises to her feet and goes straight to Louis for answers, knowing far too well how her mother acts in situations like this one. “How is he?”

Louis hesitates, debating whether honesty is the right thing to side with, but figures everyone will see Harry soon enough. “He’s in a rough situation.”

“What does that mean exactly?” she presses. “Is he talking at least?”

“He's trying to,” Louis corrects and doesn’t finish until Gemma’s look of confusion urges him to explain. Everyone’s looking at him for a proper answer now. He doesn’t feel it’s his place to go into detail. So, he takes Gemma's wrist in his hand and pulls her aside, away from the commotion. “The entire right side of his face isn’t functioning, so he can't move his mouth. He’s trying to talk, but he can't form words.”

Gemma’s eyebrows draw together. “What do you mean he can’t move his mouth?”

“I mean the entire right side of his mouth is drooping and he can hardly talk past it,” Louis says, “and he’s fucking frustrated.”

“Why is his mouth like that?” she asks.

He sighs at her. The doctor gave them a formal explanation, now here he is, explaining it the Tommo way - otherwise known as the informal, estimated way. “Facial paralysis is what the doctor said, innit? I think it means he literally can’t feel his face. He has no control over facials or pronunciation.”

“You mean to tell me that a few hours ago, Harry was having the time of his life, performing, and now he’s had a stroke and can't say a single word? Explain to me how that happens so quickly.”

He shrugs. “I’m not a doctor.”

“I didn’t say you were," Gemma argues. "I want to know how one of the healthiest, happiest people I know just lost everything. I want a logical explanation for my brother being laid up in a hospital, partially paralyzed, and not one of those medical bullshit explanations either.”

There’s not a proper answer Louis can give Gemma. All he manages to say is, "He hasn’t lost everything. He’s a twenty two year old rockstar with great friends and family supporting him.“

“Don't act so fucking dumb. You know that things aren’t going to be the same after this,” she turns from him and starts to walk away.

“This is day one,” His voice halts her movement. He understands the raw emotion and extreme misunderstanding of the situation, he can relate, but making such assumptions that Harry’s career and life are finished is insane.  “He’s been here for a few hours and you’re already making assumptions? He could make a full recovery, but without the full support of his family and friends, he’s never going to make any progress.”

She turns to face him. “I never said I didn’t support him. I just find it hard to believe that you’re expecting a full recovery out of someone who can't say a single word!”

A flash of anger passes through his entire body. "As his sister isn't it your responsibility to show him some support regardless?" Louis raises his voice at her, "Huh? Why are you being so fuckin' negative? He's not gonna get any better with your bad fuckin' attitude."

"Don't you dare, don't you fucking dare," Gemma forces a laugh, "I love my brother more than anything in this entire world. Wasn't it your responsibility as his boyfriend to treat him well and not break his heart? You properly fucked that up didn't you? This is your fault, you fucking tool."

Louis opens his mouth to argue with her, but he can't. His voice is caught in the back of his throat. He's stunned. She doesn't genuinely think this is his fault does she?

“Hey," Liam slips between the two of them. “Everything alright?”

“Gemma doesn’t think Harry’s going to make a full recovery. That’s just bloody ignorant, isn’t it Liam?”

Liam’s thoughtless answer bothers Louis the most. “Oh, yeah, I’m sure he’ll be alright," he turns to Gemma. “Your mum thinks it would be a good idea for you to go back to the hotel with us and get some rest.”

Gemma doesn’t argue. “Sounds alright to me,” she doesn’t bid Louis a goodnight, doesn’t say another word to him, merely walks over to stand with Lottie, Jay, Lou, and Niall.

“You should get some rest too,” Liam says, placing his hand on Louis' shoulder, trying his hardest to avoid sounding pushy.

Louis asks. “Is Anne leaving?” Whether she chooses to stay or not will determine if he stays tonight. He doesn't want to leave her in this large, insensitive place all by herself.

“No. She’s insisting on staying.”

“There you have it then,” Louis answers. “I’m going to stay.”

“But-“

“Goodnight Liam. Someone needs to stay with her and I want to be here in case something happens.”

Liam reminds him, “Nothing’s going to happen. Harry's in good hands, but if you want to stay then be my guest. I’ll see you in the morning.”

“You don’t have to come tomorrow morning if- “

“I want to see how he’s doing," Liam says, softly, "and I’m going to speak with HQ tomorrow as well to see what sort of arrangements we can make.”

Louis rubs a hand over his face. Honestly, there was a moment where he had forgotten they’re members of the biggest boyband on the planet. Now it feels like the whole world feels like it revolves around every choice they make.

He doesn’t have a clue what’s going to happen with the band. There isn’t much that can be done to fix it. It’s not as though HQ can cure Harry with enough motivation. Harry’s going to have to go through days, weeks, months, of therapy to even remotely begin to recuperate. Gemma's right. He hates to admit it but she's absolutely right, Harry may not make a full recovery, he may never be able to perform again. Tonight may have been his last time strutting across a stage, making an audience erupt into cheers, screaming into a microphone, singing his heart out...

The thought makes Louis sick to his stomach, but he reminds himself only time will tell. Harry has all the time in the world to recovery.

Liam hugs him. "I'll see you mate," he says.

The group disappears down the corridor, leaving Anne and Louis to their own. Louis sits across from her. "I have a question for you."

"What's that?" Anne asks, trying her hardest to keep from undergoing another round of hysteria.

Louis swallows, his Adam's apple bobs, "Why do you think Harry was so insistent on me seeing him tonight?"

There's no hesitation in her answer. "I suppose it's because he knows you won't treat him any differently."

He nods his head as if trying to grasp what exactly it is she's saying. It doesn't make sense to him.

"You two may be at odds, but when you went in there to see him, you didn't treat him as anyone else would have. You didn't conform to the situation, instead you carried on normally, maybe a bit more civilly, and I can guarantee knowing someone wasn't focusing solely on what happened helped him," she explains, "As soon as I went in to see him, he was asking about you, so I'm glad you decided to make the trip here."

"Why would I treat him differently? He's the same guy he was hours before. Just looking at him, I know it's Harry sitting there, not some brain injury altering who he is," Brain injury, another strange phrase to associate Harry with, but still absolutely true. He's suffered a brain injury. That's why he isn't able to speak and move properly, but mentally, he's exactly the same guy.

"That's why he was comfortable with you. You didn't cry in front of him, or make a big deal of it. I could hear the two of you talking, and genuinely Louis, you've probably helped him more than any of us realize," she pauses, "Do you think you'll continue to visit him?"

"I want to see him get better, and if I can help him with that, then I will, but I don't think I need to be here in order to do that. We're still not on good terms and I'm not ready to be around him all the time," Louis answers, truthful, knowing he can be completely honest with Anne, even if his candidness is in regard to her son.

Anne nods, pursing her lips. Not another word is spoken between the two of them for a few minutes.

“How about I go get us some coffee?” he offers, knowing sleep is the last thing either of them are worrying about, “My treat.”

She stares off to the side, patting down a disheveled part of her hair, "Sounds lovely.”

“How do you like yours?” He hasn’t bothered to remember her exact coffee order, in fact he doesn't even know what kind of coffee he likes. There's too many options - he’s more of a tea man himself - but he knows Harry's coffee order exactly. Mostly black, a splash of milk, one creamer, a dash of vanilla flavoring depending on the weather, and, sometimes, a few ice cubes to avoid scolding the back of his throat.

She deeply exhales. “Black is perfect. Thank you.”

“I’ll be right back with that then,” He walks away and steps into the lift. He can now honestly say he understands why there are so many coffee machines placed in hospitals. It's for long nights like this one, and the others to come.

Needlessly said, he ought to build a tolerance to the bold taste.


	3. II

The next morning, after his cramped, pathetic sleep in a plastic chair, Louis wakes, startled, to the familiar feeling of someone staring at him. When he was still involved with Harry, he would often wake to the younger boy laying beside him, studying him with a doting look spanned across his eyes. Whenever Louis would question him, he would say “you’re the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen. I can’t take my eyes off of you”. 

Harry has always been a charmer, even in some of the most impractical, inappropriate predicaments.

Louis expeditiously sits up in his seat, rubbing his eyes with his knuckles, clearing his bleary vision, only to find Dr. Carmichael standing over him, an expectant expression spanned across his geriatric face. 

There’s an ache in Louis’ back, tension built around his upper body, his shoulders tingle, serving as a constant reminder of the rough, uncomfortable night of sleep he endured. 

“Oh fuck,” he curses, fixating his hand to his head, in a mad attempt to mat his uncouth hair to his scalp. His mind drifts to the worst case scenario and hundreds of questions try to fall from his mouth at once, coercing his speech to fumble. “Is-” he clears his throat, “is something wrong? Is Harry okay? Did you-”

Dr. Carmichael raises his hand, forming a halting gesture. “Easy Louis. Harry’s doing well this morning. Anne left to talk to Harry’s father. He arrived early this morning,” he explains, “I do, however, need to speak with you about Harry’s procedure. I’m afraid I can't hold it off any longer. There’s a possibility of the artery rupturing again if proper precautions aren’t taken.” 

“Oh,” Louis sighs, sagging against the chair. 

“I'm sorry to spring this on you so early,” Dr. Carmichael sits in the empty seat beside his, “The first thing you should know is the procedure is called endovascular coiling and - ”

“You're not cutting his head open are you?” Louis asks. “You can't possibly risk brain surgery, not when he just had a stroke.” 

“It's not a typical brain surgery. There's no incision that needs to be made to his head. He’s going to be awake for the procedure while I use a catheter to go up through his groin artery to reach the ruptured aneurysm in his head. Then, I’ll use X-Rays to help deploy the coils into the ruptured brain artery,” Dr. Carmichael explains, “It’s a rather common procedure for patients who’ve had a brain aneurysm.” 

Louis swallows, bouncing his knee, “Well, what are the coils made of? What do they do?”

“Thin platinum metal and they're shaped like springs. They’re going to repair the aneurysm,” Dr. Carmichael explains, “All I need are a few signatures from you, as Harry’s full cognitive ability can’t be determined, and we’ll take him down to the operating theatre as soon as possible, unless you have any more questions.” 

“Well, I mean,” Louis stumbles over his words, rubbing his hands over his face. He’s exhausted, absolutely, utterly, terribly exhausted. His body throbs and aches for the opportunity to sleep, to see Harry, to go home. “Does he-” he clears his throat, “does he know he’s having surgery?”

Dr. Carmichael pushes his glasses farther up his nose with his plump finger, “We spoke briefly this morning. I believe he’s rather nervous about the procedure, but he seems insistent that I get your approval before we take another step forward.” 

“My approval,” Louis repeats, bewildered, unable to wrap his mind around Harry’s reasoning, “Why on earth does he want my approval?”

Dr. Carmichael rests his hand on Louis’ shoulder, “We can discuss that further at a later time. Right now, we need to focus on the operation in order to, essentially, save Harry’s life.”

Louis shrugs the doctor’s hand off his shoulder, “Are there risks?” he asks.

“There are risks with any procedure, but Louis, with this surgery, there is a possibility of Harry suffering another stroke or developing a brain infection,” Dr. Carmichael stops, then says, “but with that said, the odds of something so severe happening are slim to none and if I don’t perform the procedure, then Harry is at risk for having another aneurysm and at that point, there is a high fatality rate.”

Louis’ hands are clad to his thighs with sweat, nervously tugging at the cotton material, “He’ll die?” 

The thought of Harry dying is hard for Louis to process. The thought of anyone dying is hard to process, but Harry, he’s spent most of his adulthood around Harry, even if a portion of it he spent despising him. Whenever he looked around, on the tour bus, on stage, during interviews, Harry was always there, even if he was just laying around, staring at his phone, his presence was still prevalent. 

As their relationship fizzled out, Louis began to hate when Harry was around, absolutely loathed when he would see his bandmate, no matter what he was doing. Harry could type on his laptop, headphones plugged in his ears, and Louis would still find harsh words to utter about it. 

Niall and Liam soon became caught in the middle of Louis’ endless bickering and Harry’s passive attitude towards everyone and everything. It seemed that losing Louis caused Harry to misplace large pieces of himself, which included his personality. Louis drained him of his own being, his own views, his feelings, everything unique about him was forgotten. 

“If the procedure isn't performed soon, then yes, there is a chance,” the doctor explains, “At this point there’s no other safe option, this is the only safe and simple alternative to brain surgery.” 

Louis hesitates, weighing out the few options he’s been allowed to think over, but as soon as he realizes that none of his options show any real sense of prosperity, he says, “Fine. I'll sign the forms,” he sighs, “What’s going to happen after the operation?” 

“Typically after the procedure patients have to lay flat on their back anywhere from twelve hours to -” Dr. Carmichael begins to say. 

“No,” Louis interrupts, “What’s going to happen to Harry after this procedure? After all of this? Is he going to recover?”

Dr. Carmichael sighs. “I'm going to have him relocated to a rehabilitation center in a few days time as soon as he starts to show some improvement and from there, he’ll start physical therapy and speech therapy to strengthen the muscles on the right side of his body.” 

“What are the chances of a full recovery?” Louis asks. It doesn’t concern him, not really, he won’t be the one forced to deal with the aftermath of this operation, but he’d like to know what physical state Harry will be in for the rest of his life. He understands the outcome of the aneurysm could have been much worse, but even if Harry would have been brain damaged to an extent of lost mentality or of permanent physical impairment he would still have people around him, supporting him, loving him, giving him the utmost respect. “What are the chances Harry is going to be the same Harry he was yesterday and the day before and has been everyday of his life?”

“You seem like a reasonable kid, Louis, so I’ll be completely honest with you,” Dr. Carmichael stops for a moment, hesitating, then says, “Frankly, the chances of a full recovery are slim to none. I've seen few patients recover completely and I've seen others struggle for years after. I believe since Harry is so young he has good odds, but his paralysis at this point is severe and there's nothing more I can do for him here after the coiling operation. We don’t have the proper accommodations for someone in his condition.” 

Louis shuts his eyes and draws in a sharp breath, “What's the outcome then?”

“I expect him to regain the strength and fine motor skills in his hand and arm, but as far as walking normally again, it’s hard to predict, though I highly doubt he’ll regain one hundred percent mobility. Like most stroke patients, he’ll most likely need some sort of walking assistance. I would say the best chances are he’ll be cane dependent and attending long term speech therapy.” 

Louis feels nauseous. “A cane? You realize Harry is a healthy, strong twenty two year old guy and not a eighty year old man, don’t you?”

“You’re absolutely correct,” Dr. Carmichael says in agreement, “Harry is an incredibly strong young man, but not in the same way as he was. With the trauma that’s happened to him things are going to change for him, mentally and emotionally, but mostly physically. I know this must be difficult to cope with but - ” 

Louis can’t help but argue, “Do you? I find that to be pretty fucking hard to believe,” he snaps, “You’re a doctor, you give terrible news to people. I doubt that you have ever received news like this. My bandmate, my twenty two year old bandmate, had an aneurysm just yesterday and he’s paralyzed. It’s a bit hard for me to sit here and listen to you drone on and on like this is the end.” 

“It’s going to be difficult to come to terms with. You should think about hiring a crisis management therapist. Not only for Harry, but for everyone involved in this, including yourself.” Dr. Carmichael softly says, rising to his feet, “I’ll go grab the forms for you.” 

“A therapist? Why would  _ I _ need a therapist? I’m not the one who had their life ripped out from underneath them like a rug. I’m rather content with myself right now.”

Dr. Carmichael smiles, weakly, “You’ll experience the stages of grief. Denial is often one of the first coping mechanisms.”

It’s an indirect statement. He’s telling Louis he’s in denial and he’s right. God, Louis hates that he’s right, but there’s no better way to describe what he's feeling. He’s in denial, but for what? Harry’s still here, thank god, he’s still alive and Louis can walk into his room at any given moment and see him, so grieving doesn’t make sense to him. “Grieving for what?” Louis asks. He doesn’t understand and the more he doesn’t understand, the more frustrated he grows. "What am I grieving for?"  


“The old Harry. Grief comes in all different forms. We don’t always grieve for the deceased. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll grab those forms for you. I’ll be back momentarily and we’ll move on from there,” Dr. Carmichael walks away, leaving Louis standing by himself. 

Once glance around the lobby he’s sat in and there’s more people than he can count, but the feeling of isolation remains, settled deep in the pit of his stomach. 

While Dr. Carmichael departs to gather forms for Louis to potentially sign his ex-boyfriend’s life away, Anne and Harry’s father, Des, approach him. She’s quite cold in regards to Des, arms crossed over her chest, and a shawl wrapped around her shoulders. Her chin is raised slightly, lips pursed, as if attempting to prove a point of superiority to her ex-husband. “Louis,” Des greets, too much excitement laced in his bellowing octave, offering his hand to his son’s ex-boyfriend. “It’s been awhile. How are you, son?”

Anne stops to look at him, eyebrows raised, “Now is not the time, Desmond. Your son is about to have a serious operation,” She’s in a better state of mind than she was yesterday evening - Louis supposes she’s taken a few doses of anxiety medication - as seen by her apathetic emotion in regards to Harry’s procedure. 

Louis stands to shake his hand, “I’m,” he pauses, “I’m alright, and yourself?” As of currently, he feels a bout of dread spiraling through his insides, but he won’t dare share that with Harry’s parents. He doesn’t deserve to feel dread, he doesn’t deserve to feel sadness, or anger, or worry, he doesn’t deserve to feel anything regarding Harry’s condition. He can’t even begin to imagine what they’re going through emotionally.

Des drops his hand down to his side, “Just a tad shocked,” he answers, “I don’t really know what to think of all this,” he leans in closer, lowering his voice, “but between me and you, I think these doctors are full of shit.” 

“Full of shit?” Anne echoes, having heard the comment meant to stay confidential, “The doctors are full of shit? The doctors that are saving our son’s life are full of shit?” As she speaks, her voice picks up a certain edge, a certain unstable, shattered, edge, and tears gather in her eyes, evident even under the artificial lighting. “You-” she brings her hand to her lips, holding her mouth as a sob escapes her.

“Anne, darling,” Des says, wrapping an arm around her petite frame, “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have-”

Anne shoves his arm off, “Don’t, Desmond. I’m going to see  _ our _ son,” she looks to Louis, then touches his face, cradling his cheek. She sniffles, keeping her eyes focused on Louis’, “You should come to his room too. He’d want to see you before the surgery, I know he would.”

“I really shouldn’t. It's not my place,” Louis answers, swallowing before adding, “I'm just here to sign the paperwork and then I’m going home, Anne, I’m sorry.” 

A weak smile spans across Anne’s mouth, though evidently forced, as it doesn't quite reach her eyes. The usual crinkles around her eyes are nonexistent. “I understand,” she whispers, withdrawing her hand from his face, “I suppose we’ll talk later.”

With those five words, she disappears, walking down the corridor, gradually turning into a blur of muted colors, then vanishes all together. 

“I understand where you’re coming from,” Des says, pulling Louis’ attention away from Anne’s departure.

Louis eyes him closely, “Do you?”

“You’re not responsible for my son anymore. You can’t help that he left your name on his paperwork,” Des explains. He places his hand on Louis’ shoulder, squeezing in reassurance, “You two went through a hard breakup. It’s a terminated relationship and there’s no reason for you to stick around. Don’t feel guilty.” 

Louis doesn’t believe a word of what he’s saying. Des’ words don’t sound right. He feels guilty for what’s happened to Harry, but even more so, he feels guilty for the months of mental torment he put Harry through. From the sounds of it - all the angry words thrown around from Liam and Niall and even Gemma - he drove Harry into terrible predicaments.

“Alright,” he mutters. 

“Alright,” Des says, patting Louis’ shoulder, “I’m going to go check on Harry.” 

Once Des leaves, Louis is left sitting by himself, again. He crosses his legs at the ankles, one over the other, too anxious to do anything other than sit and stare. He knows if, or when, he finally builds the courage to scroll through Twitter it’s bound to be mad, people tweeting at him, demanding answers, and media outlets circulating false, scandalous stories to increase their reputation as sources. He’s not prepared for the backlash from the public. 

Dr. Carmichael returns, barring a thin stack of professional papers, “We discussed everything written in these papers, but if you see something and have further questions regarding it, don’t hesitate to ask.” 

Louis doesn’t feel as though his sanity can handle reading over more medical jargon. He takes the pen from the doctor and signs and initials where the document indicates to. “We’ll talk after the procedure,” Dr. Carmichael says, collecting the documents from Louis. He binds them together with a paperclip, slipping them into a folder, “It isn’t a very long procedure, but depending on the size of the aneurysm, it may take longer than I anticipate.” The doctor dismisses himself, walking down the same elongated hallway Des and Anne retreated down.

Louis knows he can go home, as he figured he would, as that’s what he told Anne, but the longer he sits and studies the patients passing by - some of them in wheelchairs, others using walkers, a few hooked into drips with an I.V., the majority with parts of their heads shaved - the more intense the ache in his chest grows to be. Being sat in the neurology wing of the hospital doesn’t aid his sense of worry, many patients struggle to speak, Louis can detect their slurred, poorly enunciated words, and others show hardship with simple cognitive abilities. He wonders if he’s being given a brief look into Harry’s future. 

His mind is telling him to go home, or at the very least, return to the hotel. He’s not needed at the hospital right now, but each time he comes to the consensus that he needs to leave, his legs refuse to work, weakening at the knees. 

A few nurses smile sadly at them as they walk by, clipboards and medical tools in hand. Louis wonders what goes through the average nurse’s mind, like for example, how do they feel regarding Harry Styles, an irreplaceable, unique entity, loved by millions, sitting in this wing of the hospital, unable to do much for himself. 

It doesn't make sense to him. How a person, especially a person as health conscious and admirable as Harry, can be fine, but face rapid decline in a matter of minutes. He was fine, singing and interacting with the crowd, then he wasn't. In a matter of minutes, he wasn’t fine, he couldn’t pry himself off the floor, he couldn't talk, and now he's stuck in a hospital room, unable to walk or speak.

Things may have been different if they were still together. People always say choices, actions, and behaviors can all affect the way a situation plays out. If Louis chose a different path, if he wasn't the impulsive being he is, if he would have used words instead of angry gestures, if he would have given Harry the chance to grasp why he left him, then maybe he wouldn't be sat in this hospital lobby, stressed about the outcome of his ex-boyfriend’s surgery.

He needs to stop referring to Harry as his ex-boyfriend, or his band mate, or whatever snarky title he’s decided to give him for the time being. He’s Harry. He’s Harry Styles and Harry Styles is a person who deserves respect during this terrible situation he’s been thrusted into. 

Louis’ fingers drum against his thigh as he processes his choices from this point forward. He decides to see Harry before the surgery for the following reasons; If Harry is concerned with his approval regarding the procedure, it means his presence is important to him and if something happens to Harry during the procedure, God forbid, Louis doesn’t want the guilt of never sterilizing things with Harry on his mind constantly. 

He deeply inhales before hauling himself into a slouched stance, taking a slight detour into the restroom to wash up. 

But with a single look in the mirror, he’s shocked that it doesn’t crack. Fuck, he looks awful. His hair is disheveled, deep purple bags reside underneath his eyes, and his skin is slightly discolored, radiating a greyish hue. The stress of the situation is already getting to him. 

He pulls at his cheeks and tries his hardest to smile, but it looks more like a grimace. He doesn’t try again. A few splashes of tap water and a pump of hand soap help him to slick his hair back. As for his heavy-set eyes and flushed skin, he has to let it be, there’s no more time to waste, even though he does debate giving Lou a ring, but it’s only a brief debate before he decides he’s overreacting. 

In all honesty, he knows Harry wouldn’t mind if he walked in with nothing but a brown paper sack clothing him, because Louis’ sheer presence is all he wants. 

He leaves the loo and walks down the hall to Harry’s room. Though as soon as he steps into the small, private room, Anne, Des, and Harry’s doctor are nowhere to be seen. The noise from the hallway fades, no more voices overlapping each other or heart monitors screeching or doctor's feet thudding as they run down the hallway. He’s left with the sound of Harry’s nasal cannula blowing oxygen into his body and his heart monitor evenly beeping. 

He finds the steady noise to be peaceful and comforting. A movie plays on the TV fixed to the wall. It’s most likely a romantic comedy as they’ve always been Harry’s favorite genre of movie. Although, the volume is either set too low or Harry has it muted altogether. 

Either way, Harry isn’t paying any attention to the feel good film. He’s too focused on trying to wrap his right hand around the bars encasing him in the tiny hospital bed. Every time he tries to hoist his right arm in the air with his left hand a large thud echoes throughout the room as it hits the bar and drops back down to the mattress, displaying the weakness in his left side and the complete inability in his right.

He doesn’t seem to notice Louis at first either, but Louis doesn’t mind, finding himself rather intrigued with observing the way Harry is coping with the paralysis. He stands in the doorway, arms crossed over his chest, as he intricately watches his struggle. 

Harry begins to gradually become more upset. Every time his hand hits the railing his body tenses and increasingly louder grunts expel out of his mouth. It gets to a point where he’s trying to shout the word  _ fuck _ , but even that won’t come out clearly, and he slumps against the bed, shutting his eyes with an exasperated sigh. 

“You are so stubborn, you know that?” Louis breaks the silence, dropping his arms down to his sides. He approaches the bed, then slips into the empty chair beside Harry. Harry turns his head to look at Louis. “Don’t be so hard on yourself. You should have some patience, it’s only been twelve hours.” 

Harry glares at Louis. His green eyes are dark, sort of like a lush forest as dusk approaches, and narrowed, kind of, his right eye won’t match his left, but if it did, his expression would be threatening. He doesn’t say anything, only turns his head away, and tries to wrap his hand around the damned railing one final time.

Louis doesn’t take his eyes off of him, but still nearly jumps out of his seat when Harry’s left hand comes down and hits the opposing rail as hard as he physically can. He’s frustrated and somehow thinks taking his anger out on the bed is going to help him.

Though his actions aren’t surprising. He’s always been slightly violent. Even when they were romantically involved, Harry struggled with properly exploiting his anger, having to physically drain it, which didn’t occur often, but Louis happened to witness the violent acts a handful of times.

Harry has never placed an unloving hand on Louis, but has punched several holes into foundation of their house and broken many ceramic dishes and mugs. 

While Harry doesn’t get angry often, the occasions on which he does are utterly terrifying, yet Louis would rather him vexed than upset any day. Louis hates when he cries. He would rather have him angry over sad any day. Maybe that’s why he left in the middle of the night and why he blocked Harry’s number and why every time Harry tried to have a mature discussion with him he walked away. He didn’t want to deal with the aftermath he caused or the scarred emotions he provoked.

“You’re gonna hurt yourself,” he reaches for Harry’s right hand, holding it between both of his hands. It’s completely stiff, fingers curled inward slightly, and doesn’t even remotely twitch when Louis grabs it. Harry meets his eyes, “Stop.”

Harry turns his head away, staring out the small window provided in his hospital room. 

“Harry,” Louis sighs, leaning forward, and takes Harry’s chin in his hand, forcing him to turn his head. Harry refuses to meet his eyes. “I’m sorry that this happened. I am so sorry, but you can’t focus on trying to grab the fucking side of your bed right now. It’s not important. You’re having surgery in a bit and you need to prepare yourself for it.” 

Harry flicks his eyes up to meet Louis’ as soon as the word surgery leaves his mouth, “Y...yooou…” he slurs, then stops, huffing out a agitated exhale. 

A twinge of excitement expands in Louis’ chest. Harry’s trying to speak, even if the words aren’t coming out clear, he’s trying. “Keep going. I’m listening,” Louis takes his hand away from Harry’s face and reaches for his hand poisoned with paralysis, squeezing to offer reassurance, even if Harry can't feel it. 

Harry shakes his head, attempting to speak again. “Saaa…” A groan falls out of his mouth. 

It kills Louis to have to say it. He doesn’t know how to go about it without hurting Harry’s feelings so he just goes ahead and says it, even if it is rather blunt, and sounds more abrasive than he intends it to sound, “I don’t know what the fuck you’re saying.” 

The sudden silence between them speaks louder than words. Harry tightly shuts his eyes and sinks as far into the mattress as he can. His fingers fumble with the blanket he’s been given by the hospital, trying to pull it over his head, to shield himself from Louis’ stunned stare. 

Louis acquires it before he can, yanking it out of his grasp. There’s a way to go about saying things and he knows he should not have stated his misunderstanding the way he did. Maybe it was the wording or maybe it was his tone, he isn’t sure, but he knows what he said wasn’t understanding or gentle at all. 

“I’m sorry,” Louis apologizes, “I shouldn’t have said it like that. I just...I don’t know what to say to you. This puts me in such a rough position,” he says without considering the rough position Harry’s in,  “It’s hard for me to understand how something like this happened so quickly.”

Harry glances at him and scoffs. 

Staring off to the side, Louis rubs his own thigh with the heel of his palm, and waits for something to draw them away from the uncomfortable tension in the room. “Where’s your mum?” he asks. 

Harry peers at the door. 

Louis looks in that direction too, “Did she leave to speak with your doctor?” 

Harry nods, attempting to speak once again, “D...daaa,”

“Your dad?” Louis assumes, “Your dad went with your mum?” He’s surprised he’s able to pick up on Harry’s unintelligible speaking, although it does make sense given his experience with little kids, who speak similarly, as he has six younger siblings. 

Louis is one of the only people who knows about Harry’s toxic relationship with his dad. His dad never physically or intentionally threatened him, but emotionally, his dad ruined the paternal bond they could have had. He always placed Gemma on a pedestal higher than Harry’s - it always seemed no matter what Harry did, Gemma always did it, or something comparable to his achievement, better - and Harry claimed it was emotionally draining, constantly trying to prove himself to his dad. 

At one time, Louis was the only person Harry trusted, the only one he confided in, but after Louis’ departure, he didn’t genuinely have anyone to rant to at two in the morning about the emotional issues he had as a kid or the subjects he felt were issues in the spotlight or even someone to show dumb videos to. As soon as Louis left, all of that was gone. He was by himself, all alone, night after night, in an empty hotel room, praying for things to be different. 

“I’m sure they’ll be back to see you off to the procedure,” Louis says.

Harry doesn’t reply. He doesn’t say anything else, instead tweaks the TV’s volume, increasing it, and soon, the voices of the actors in the movie fill the void of conversation.

Dr. Carmichael appears a few minutes later, followed by Anne and Des. Louis notices a glint of gratitude in her soft eyes, then nods after she mouths, “thank you”. 

“A nurse is going to stop in administer a light sedative to help calm those last minute nerves,” Dr. Carmichael explains, then pinpoints his attention to Anne and Des, “then we’re going to take Harry down to the theatre.”

Anne appears rather antsy, fingering the cross pendant resting below the base of her throat, “When are you going to administer the local anesthetic?” 

“We’ll administer it in the OR, once we’ve marked the surgical location and inserted his urinary catheter,” Dr. Carmichael explains, adjusting his glasses. Louis swears his heart ceases to beat for a moment. He hadn’t realized how invasive the procedure was, but there’s not another option at this point. The doctor clears his throat as if trying to rid the tension in the room, “It’s standard protocol.”  

While Louis believes him and encourages Harry to have this necessary procedure, there’s pity bundled in his chest. Never in the five years he’s known Harry has he ever pitied him, but knowing Harry’s about to be forced to bare himself on a metal table in front of a dozen doctors, interns, and other medical personnel, he feels nothing but pity. It’s not enough that he’s paralyzed on the entire right side of his body, now he has to allow doctors to touch confidential parts of his body, and while he’s awake too. 

“As I’ve explained to each of you, there is always the possibility of complications during the procedure,” Dr. Carmichael begins to say, “and my team and I are going to try our very hardest to prevent any difficulties. Harry, you are in great hands, but with that said, these problems can arise without being provoked, so I ask that all of you keep an open mind as this is our best and safest option.”

“The possibility of the aneurysm rupturing again,” Des stops, one hand braced on his hip, his other hand pressed to his face, pinching his nose between his fingers, “Is it likely?”

“There’s always the possibility, yes,” The doctor says, though sounds confident when he adds, “but I am going to do everything in my power to prevent that from happening. Now, are there any other questions? I want to make sure all of you have a firm understanding of the procedure before we operate.”

Anne shakes her head, “I- I think everything's been made clear, thank you.”

“Alright. The nurse will be in shortly, and I will see you all after the procedure,” Dr. Carmichael dismisses himself, sliding out of the room.

A doubtful expression casts itself over Harry’s sharp facial features, an expression broadcasting fear and uncertainty to each and everyone of them in the room, an expression coercing Louis’ chest to tighten. Harry’s eyes are wide, his pupils blown, as he stares up at the ceiling. His breathing is uneven, chest falling and rising in spastic huffs. 

Studying his petrified reaction makes Louis’ skin crawl. He doesn’t want Harry to feel scared, there isn’t anything practical to be scared of, though there’s no evidence to reflect on and convince him otherwise. 

Anne approaches Harry, bending down to brush his hair off his forehead, neatly tucking it behind his ears. “It’s going to be okay, love,” Her voice is clouded with forthcoming emotion, a combination of distress and sorrow, “You’re-” her voice breaks and she steps away, turning her back to him, not wishing to startle him anymore than he already is. 

Des steps closer to her, attempting to embrace her, but she raises her hand in the air, shaking it, a gesture cautioning him to stay away. Her other hand is pressed to her face, aiding to mute her daunting sobs.

Harry watches her, a painfully disturbed expression spanned across his face. He peers at Louis as if pleading for a glimpse of normalcy. 

Before Louis has the chance to say anything, a nurse enters the room, hair pulled back into a slick ponytail, and a warm smile painted across her altruistic lips. She holds a needle, cap sealing the top, and a small vial, filled with a clear, liquid medicine. “Hello,” she greets, “I’m Elizabeth and I’m here to help you prep for your procedure, Harry.” 

Louis eyes the medical supplies braced in her small hands, “What is that?” he asks, curiously.

“Dr. Carmichael should have mentioned it before he left to prep for surgery, but this is a sedative,” The nurse answers, her tone extremely soft, “It’s going to help calm him before I take him down to the OR.” 

Louis watches her as she prepares the injection. She flicks the cap off the needle, shakes the small vial, then tears the lid off the vial, thus continuing to insert the needle into the glass bottle, extracting the sedative. “How do you feel about needles, Harry? I need you to stay still.” 

Harry studies the needle, eyes appearing a bit glassy and bloodshot, tears evidently beginning to gather in his infamous green eyes. 

Upon realizing he can’t speak, Louis says, “He doesn’t like them. A nurse messed up during a blood test when he was a kid and poked the wrong area, caused him to bleed all over the place, so no he doesn’t like needles.” 

Des raises his eyebrows at Louis, blatantly surprised that someone, let alone his son’s ex-boyfriend, would bother to remember that. Even Anne glances over her shoulder, chin dipped down slightly as she inquisitively gawks at him. 

“What?” Louis asks, staring between the two of them, “I’m right, aren’t I?” he looks to Harry, “You don’t like needles, right?” 

Harry nods, “Rrr…” he muddles.

“Exactly,” Louis says. The nurse is observing him and once Louis meets her eyes, it’s clear they’ve come to the same conclusion, “Harry, I don’t think I ever got around to telling you,” he says, instantly obtaining Harry’s full attention, “I think Clifford got the neighbor’s dog pregnant.” 

Clifford is the first - and only - pet they owned together. Louis came home with a mass of black and white curly fur bundled in his arms one day, convincing Harry he couldn’t leave him in the shelter to eventually be euthanized, it just wasn’t an ethical thing to do. Somehow the dog ended up liking Harry far more than Louis anyway, always curled on his lap, at his feet, or by his side. Clifford would whine and bark whenever Harry left the house, but when Louis would leave for the day, the mutt would remain unbothered, sprawled across the couch, asleep, refusing to move an inch.

When Louis left Harry, he took Clifford with him, and while it took Clifford ages to settle in with his new home and surroundings, Louis wasn’t prepared to leave him with Harry. Though, now he wishes he would have. Then, at least, he would have left Harry with  _ something _ . 

Harry raises his eyebrows.

“I know,” Louis nods his head, chuckling, “The darling little Border Collie next door, Sunny I think her name is, is already half way through her pregnancy.” 

While Louis tells this to Harry, serving as a distraction, the nurse carefully slides the needle under Harry’s skin, dispatching the sedative into his body. 

“‘Cause you know, dogs are only pregnant for around two months,” Louis adds, “Did you know that?” 

Harry shakes his head. 

“Right, me neither,” he agrees, “Gives me hardly anytime to plan for the puppies.” He glances at the nurse and she nods at him as if telling him the injection was successful.

“Alright, Harry,” she says, stepping into his line of sight, “The sedative is all set. It’ll kick in any second now.” 

In about thirty seconds, the sedative flows through the injection spot in his arm up to his brain, instantly providing Harry with relief from anxiety. The stern expression on his face softens, there’s no longer stress lines paving through his forehead and around his eyes, and his jaw has relaxed, the clenching and grinding of his teeth having vanished. 

Harry doesn’t say anything, rather sags against the mattress, peering around at the four people stationed in his room, three of them are the people he cares the most about. He values their opinions the most.

Louis is quite advanced at sharing conversation with Harry when he can’t speak, or instead, is struggling immensely to form words. Considering all of the frequent vocal infections Harry’s drawn to, Louis knows how to communicate with him without hearing his voice. When they still noticed one another's existence, they would sometimes have to jot things down or text one another, or Louis could tell by the simplicity of Harry’s actions what exactly it was he meant.

“I’m sorry but I need to get him down to the theatre,”  the nurse says, smiling politely, “so if you would, say your goodbyes. I’m going to finish preparing him. Dr. Carmichael will most likely explain this to you again, but after the surgery, he’s going to be transferred to Neuro ICU for overnight observation.” 

Anne draws in a shaky inhale. She goes first, bending down, whispering something incomprehensible to Harry, then pulls away, kissing his cheek. Upon pulling away from her beloved son, she begins to cry again, but wishing to keep him in composed state of mind, she excuses herself, exiting the room quickly. 

Des simply grabs Harry’s working hand and squeezes. He hardly says anything - he never has been a man of many words - rather meets Harry’s eyes and offers him a firm nod, “We’ll see you when you come out, son.” 

After both his mother and father depart, only Louis, Harry, and the nurse are left in the room. Louis doesn’t know what to say to Harry. He can’t exactly spew honesty about his feelings right now - in the scheme of things, they don’t matter - nor should he grant Harry a sense of false hope. 

He leans in close to Harry, pressing his lips to his clammy forehead, “You’re gonna be alright, Harry,” he says. 

Harry appears astonished regarding Louis’ course of action, but evidently, he can’t say anything. Instead, he gawks at Louis, eyes wide, lips slightly parted.

Louis stands, “Now you have to bring your ass out of that operating room,” Harry mutters a few distorted words and Louis knows he’s been clearly understood. He looks to the nurse and says, “You lot better take care of him.” 

“Of course,” Her tone is promising, confident, and Louis feels properly assured with her commitment and poise, “We’ll see you in a little while.” 

There’s one last glance, a long and steady gaze, exchanged between himself and Harry before he exits the sterilized room. 

As soon as he steps in the hallway and props himself against the wall for support, he doubles over, tears and snot rushing to expel out of him. The strength he presented in front of Harry and his parents was fake, absolutely forced, but someone needed to be brave, to be secure, to be supportive, to be inspiriting. 

“It’s okay,” There’s a hand on his back, Anne’s hand is on his backside, stroking her fingers along his upper back, “Shh, it’s okay, Louis,”

Between witnessing Harry’s physical weakness, speech inabilities, and fear, Louis is struggling to empathize with him. He doesn’t even remotely understand what Harry is dealing with emotionally and mentally.

“He-” he chokes on a whimper, shaking his head, “I can’t- he-” 

Anne swallows, “I know, shh, I know, it’s okay,” she whispers, fixating her eyes on him. She shifts, wrapping her arms around the man who has always been much like a second son to her, and embraces him, resting her chin on his shoulder, “He’s going to be okay, one way or another, he is going to be okay.” 

Louis buries his face against Anne’s neck, attempting to slow his shallow, quickened breathing, “I have to- I-”

“Shh,” Anne shushes, shutting her eyes as she holds him, “It’s alright. Why don’t you have a seat? We can sit down and talk,” she whispers.

The surgery finishes before two complete hours pass. During this time, Louis paces, strolling along the aisle way of chairs for the majority of it. There’s an intricate knot clumped in his stomach - he’s never had this much anxiety - because he knows one wrong move could end in Harry losing his life, ceasing to exist, the physical entity that is him terminating. 

He listens to Anne tell stories of Harry’s childhood, which he’s heard more than a handful of times, but truth be known, he’s thankful for her soothing voice. Louis is grateful for her composure and serenity. He wouldn’t be able to withstand more of her tears. 

As soon as the procedure finishes, Dr. Carmichael steps into the lobby to speak with them, stating, in more simple terms, that the procedure went just as he’d hoped it would. “We need Harry to lay flat on his back for at least twelve hours,” he explains, “and since the incision was made in his left thigh, we need him to keep his leg as straight as possible. He may have some tenderness, bruising, or a small lump in his groin, which is completely normal, but if he starts to experience any intense pain, bleeding, or swelling then it becomes an issue and we’ll have to review the site. Also, it’s common for him to experience some nausea and headaches, especially as the sedative and local anesthesia wear off.”

After Dr. Carmichael finishes explaining the aftermath of the procedure, the three of them - Louis, Anne, and Des - are permitted in to visit Harry, though the visiting bit consists of watching him sleep. It’s oddly refreshing and serene for Louis to witness. Harry appears to be untroubled, in comparison to the fear and apprehension he emitted earlier, and it makes his heart swell with ease. There’s nothing to worry about as he observes Harry sleep.

Harry wakes a few times, but it’s nothing more than a mere couple of minutes before he loses consciousness, again and again. Louis understands though. Within the span of less than twenty four hours, Harry’s had immense pressure forced on his body and brain. Between an aneurysm and a procedure, he doesn’t know how he’s still able to function. 

Even considering how little Harry truly is operating, it’s remarkable, but he’s always been one of the strongest people Louis has ever known. He’s received a lot of backlash for words he’s said, social issues he advocates for, and the way he dresses, but hardly ever bats an eye. When he was younger, it would have upset him greatly, but he's grown to be a very remarkable, strong young man and Louis is, undoubtedly, proud of him for it, even if he hasn’t verbalized it for the last eight months. 

When Harry comes around later in the afternoon, his eyes lethargically wander, until briefly catching Louis’. He tries to say Louis’ name, but it doesn’t come out right, only the slur of an L expels past his lips before he drifts back into his unconscious daze. 

Louis squeezes his right hand tighter each time he comes around, rubbing his thumb over the pulled skin of his knuckles, and whispers, “It’s okay. We’re right here.”

The thought of having a catheter pushed through an artery and then laced through blood vessels within the body makes Louis’ body feel tight. He wonders what the sensation felt like - if Harry could even feel it - and furthermore, how a person created the procedure long ago. 

Anne sits on Harry’s other side, Des sat beside her, and watches Harry with teary eyes. 

“Did Dr. Carmichael tell you they’re moving him to a rehab center after he recovers from the surgery?” Louis asks, trying to get a decent - and hopefully - positive conversation started between them, to cease the tense silence. “Must mean there’s hope for him to get some of his mobility back.” 

“A rehabilitation center? Seriously?” Des sounds unimpressed. This is the first time Des has acknowledged his existence, let alone spoken to him, since their greeting before the operation.

He’s holding Anne’s hand in his own, acting as though they’re still married. Earlier in the day, Anne would have brushed him off, but Louis recognizes him serving as her only a source of comfort because her husband is away on business and therefore can’t be around to help her through this.

Louis knows he’ll arrive soon enough and wouldn’t appreciate seeing his wife’s ex-husband consoling her. Louis also knows Des is taking advantage of his ex-wife’s current instability. 

It isn’t that Louis hates Des, per se, it’s just he’s never exactly favored him either. He can come across as extremely arrogant at times and knowing the father-son backstory enrages Louis. He was never as thrilled for Harry’s success or romantic life as Anne was. He didn’t act appropriately when Harry announced their relationship and it bothered Louis, a lot, more than he ever told Harry. 

Not to mention he always causes Harry to feel invisible. Even though Harry’s anything but, Des has always been able to sweep his confidence away with one direct glance, and the rank he holds Gemma at in comparison to Harry only fuels the situation. 

It isn’t that Des doesn’t love Harry, because he obviously does, it’s just that he doesn’t know Harry well enough to properly support him. The divorce between Des and Anne occurred when Harry was only seven and their father-son bond was never rekindled.

“That’s what I said, yeah,” Louis confirms, rubbing the back of his neck with the hand that isn’t holding Harry’s. Des grumbles a response under his breath, but Louis doesn’t pay him any attention and continues on, “Dr. Carmichael wants him assigned to a physical therapist and a speech therapist as soon as possible. He said the sooner Harry gets treatment, the less severe the permanent effects will be.”

Des sighs as he rubs his hand over his stubbled cheeks, “Anne’s told me a bit about his speech since he refused to speak to me. I doubt time will make a large difference.” 

Louis doesn’t hesitate to defend Harry, “He’s struggling, but I think he’ll be okay with some practice and reassurance. He’s already doing better than he was yesterday.”

“It’s awful to think that all of your hard work has been destroyed,” Des says, dryly.

“What do you mean by that?” Louis is confused to say the least. He sits straight, rolling his shoulders back, and narrows his eyes at Des. When he doesn’t receive an answer, he furthers his curiosities, “What are you suggesting?” 

“You’re not an idiot. You should realize that One Direction is over.” 

Louis blinks a few times, attempting to process what Des has told him. He must be the one who put those ideas in Gemma’s head last night. “Over? That’s...no, you’re wrong. That’s a terrible thing to say and you’re completely wrong.”

“Am I?” Des presses. He isn’t taunting Louis, isn’t purposely being rude, he’s attempting to be honest and reasonable. “Realistically, you can’t continue as a boyband with one member incapable of talking and walking, can you? Certainly, the three of you won’t successfully make it, not after losing two members.”

Louis chooses to let the dig at himself, Niall, and Liam to fly right overhead. He’s more focused on the negative view this man has of his son. “He has a chance of recovery, but- “

“You told Anne earlier that the doctor said he would be cane dependent and a permanent need for a speech therapist would be necessary, did you not?”

“I did but- “

“He isn’t going to be doing a lot after this,” Des interrupts. “If I were you I would think of replacing him or working towards a solo career and I’m not saying that to be cruel. I only want you to be happy and realistic. You don’t want to be around someone who’s completely incapable of taking care of himself. That will lead you to a very long, miserable, and uneventful career and I wouldn’t want you to hurt my son because of his inabilities.” 

Anne cries, “Desmond, stop. Things are hard enough. Why would you force that kind of pressure on him?” 

“Just a bit of honesty, darling, we can’t expect a full recovery,” he says, nonchalantly. 

“We can hope,” Louis snaps, standing. Harry only stirs a bit as a result of the sudden change in volume, his left arm shifting to lay across his torso, and mumbles a few words in his sleep. Louis’ too frustrated and sleep-deprived to lower his voice. “He’s never going to do any better with all of this constant negativity. He needs positivity or else he’s going to give up. Would it hurt you to have some hope for your son? He needs it.” 

Des sighs, “I don’t see a point in getting his hopes up when we both know what’s going to happen at the end of all this.”

“Listen to yourself. Fuck, I need a cup of coffee,” Louis whispers, rubbing his temples with his fingertips. “If he wakes up and asks for me again, tell him I’ll be back. I expect a phone call if he comes to and stays awake,” With those harsh words, he exits the room and doesn’t turn around, not once, not even when Anne calls his name. 

He finds a coffee pot near the nurses station and pours a serving into a styrofoam cup. He then forces himself to find a desolate area and sits against a blank white wall in a long, isolated corridor. He sets his insulated cup beside him whilst he takes the time to shake his hands through his hair. 

He needs a shower, definitely, though he’s too afraid to leave the hospital in case something serious happens. His skin feels saturated with sweat and a sticky substance. He needs to wash the aura of this place off his skin, out of his body, away from his soul. 

Shutting his eyes, he leans forward, pressing his forehead against his kneecaps as he forces himself to take several deep, calming breaths. He doesn’t know how long he sits in this position for, but finally a ringtone on his phone pulls his focus back to reality. 

_ Anne: Dr. will be up soon to discuss the cause of the aneurysm with us. If you want to hear what he has to say, then you should come back to H’s room. If not, then no hard feelings, go home & get some rest. x _

Louis reads over the message. Anne has always been unbelievably kind to him. From the time he was eighteen years old on the X-Factor through all the situations that have brought him to this very spot today, she has always been supportive and understanding, even in scenarios where Harry isn’t treated the best.  

He stands, deciding to walk back to Harry’s room. He tosses his cup of coffee in the garbage before entering the room because Harry hasn’t been allowed to eat or drink yet. First there was the caution of not eating or drinking before the procedure to prevent any sort of complication, now the medical faculty aren’t entirely sure he can chew his food or swallow because of his facial paralysis. Nurses are supposed to come around soon to test his ability to do so. 

When he steps into the room, Harry’s awake, though still laying flat on his back as directed by his doctor, “Hey,” Louis greets, “how are you feeling?” Part of him forgets that Harry can’t speak because he’s used to Harry’s talkative antics. He’s always been a rather loud person - whether it consisted of holding conversation or singing and humming random lines of songs as he always used to do at their house - and for him to be completely silent is daunting. 

Harry shifts his head to peer at him. A look of surprise spans over his face as though he’s genuinely impressed that Louis never left the hospital. To be fair, Louis’ quite surprised he’s still  hanging around the neurology wing, considering the status of his relationship with Harry. There’s still tension whenever he’s around him, but he tries not to act too impulsive, Harry doesn’t need additional stress.

The younger boy points down at his leg, then morphs his face into a slightly strained expression, before falling back to its neutral state. “Your leg hurts?” Louis guesses. Harry nods.

Anne and Des stare at Louis, surprised. He doesn’t need as many cues as the two of them need. All the time he’s spent with Harry in the last five and a half years have taught him how to gauge his behavioral cues. 

“Maybe the doctor will give you some more pain medicine,” Louis suggests, sitting down in the empty chair on the opposing side of Anne and Des.

It isn’t much longer until Dr. Carmichael walks into the hospital room, followed by a female doctor, “Good afternoon,” he says, “This is my colleague Dr. Ishita Bahl. Dr. Bahl, this is Harry Styles, his mother, father, and friend,” Dr. Carmichael says, “I hope you're all doing well. As you know I’ve been studying Harry’s charts and scans for the last eighteen hours and I believe I figured out what the cause of the aneurysm was. I had Dr. Bahl also reflect on my diagnosis and we’ve come to a conclusion,” he stops, then continues, “Harry has a Brain Arteriovenous Malformation, or an AVM. An AVM is a rare occurrence, but to better explain it to you, it’s a mass of poorly formed and weakened blood vessels.” 

Des points out the obvious, “That doesn’t sound good.” 

“With an AVM comes abnormal blood flow, or rather an increased blood flow, which causes damage to the brain when it does finally bleed as we see with Harry’s current condition,” Dr. Carmichael explains, “The truth is Harry has most likely had this since he was born, but it didn’t cause any problems for him until yesterday, when the AVM finally ruptured and bled into his brain.” 

“And it just,” Anne hesitates, unsure of what to ask, “it just bursts with no warning?” 

“It’s most likely been progressing for years, they’re not usually made prominent until a person is between the ages of twenty and forty,” Dr. Bahl adds, “An AVM often puts immense, unimaginable pressure on the walls of the affected veins and arteries and overtime this would cause the walls surrounding them to become thinner and weak, and in some cases, lead to a hemorrhagic stroke.” 

Louis glances at Harry, sucking his bottom lip between his teeth. He doesn’t know what to say. 

“Although, what’s concerning is there’s no medical record of any symptoms,” Dr. Bahl says, “Most times patients with AVM tend to have a history of migraines, muscle weakness, sometimes even seizures, but none of your files indicate anything of the sort, Harry.” 

Harry tries to speak for a moment, evidently forgetting his speech isn’t clear and enunciated, rather he’s not understandable. Louis shuts his eyes, immediately feeling sorry for the younger boy, and turns his head toward the floor. 

While Dr. Carmichael doesn’t have bedside manner, he does have patience, “Here, we can have you write it down,” he says, flipping to a blank slate of paper on his clipboard, and reaches for a pen in his pocket. He hands each to Harry, setting them on his chest, as he’s still laying down.

Louis watches Harry, instantly recognizing his inability to hold the clipboard still while he writes, as the ability in his right hand is nonexistent. It should also be interesting to see how he manages to write, considering he’s dominant in his right hand, and there’s significant weakness in his left. 

Harry stares down at the clipboard, attempting to write, but it’s not easy for him. The board keeps moving out from under him and his writing is even more illegible because of it. It’s evident he’s beginning to become embarrassed and frustrated, judging by the expression spanned across his face and the slight red tint in his complexion. 

“Here love,” Louis whispers, accidentally allowing the term of endearment to slip. He reaches over, grabbing the clipboard, and holds it stationary at a slight angle. “Let me help you. I’ll hold the clipboard still while you write, take your time,” Harry furrows his eyebrows, attempting to fix his grip on the pen. Louis doesn’t say anything as he waits for Harry to, slowly, jot down his thoughts, observing the paper as Harry laces it with messy handwriting.

Harry finishes, setting the pen down on his chest. Louis’ eyes widen in surprise as he reads the truth Harry’s written.

“What is it?” Anne asks, voice breaking over the question. 

“I-” Louis shakes his head, shifting his gaze to meet Harry’s eyes, “Why didn’t you tell anyone?” 

Des sighs, “Well you might as well read it for everyone to hear.” 

Harry looks away from Louis, intently focusing on his mum, waiting for his ex-boyfriend to read his scribbled words. 

Louis swallows, “It says,” he stops, struggling to truly grasp the intensity of the situation, “um, it says, ‘I’ve always experienced headaches, but these last couple months, they’ve been a lot worse. I didn’t think much of it, I assumed-” Louis has to stop again, this time to catch his breath- “I assumed it was because of the stress I’ve been under. Sometimes I could hardly think or speak because of the pain they caused me. Then, last month I-’” Louis pauses, glaring at Harry, and drops the clipboard on his chest, “You’re a fucking idiot, Harry, a right, proper fucking idiot.” 

Harry lifts his chin slightly, unbothered by Louis’ harsh words. His eyes scan Louis’ startled expression. He’s more startled than anything else. There’s no anger present in his features.  “Give me that,” His dad reaches for the clipboard, picking up where Louis left off, “‘Last month I had a really strange experience. I was at home in London and felt very ill, which has never been uncommon for me, but it was a different kind of ill. I felt very weak and lethargic and I couldn’t shake the dizziness or nausea. I fell asleep very suddenly, but when I woke up, I was on the floor and really confused. Everything was sore.’” 

“Sounds like you experienced a grand-mal seizure, Harry,” Dr. Bahl says, scribbling across her medical notes, then asks, “Have you ever had any similar experiences?” 

Harry shakes his head. 

“Why wouldn’t you tell someone, huh?” Louis suddenly snaps, “You had a fucking seizure and you chose to ignore it, how ignorant can you possibly be? You should have called your mum or me or someone. Someone should have been told, but no, God forbid you stop being stubborn and look out for yourself for once.”  

Harry glowers at Louis as he reprimands him. Louis knows he shouldn’t have mentioned himself in his rant because he is the last person Harry would ever contact in a time of urgent need. After all, they were on such a sour basis, Louis doubts he would have even picked up the phone if he saw Harry’s name flash across the screen. 

“Fuuu…” Harry tries to say, then groans, resting his head against the mattress. 

“Don’t you tell me to fuck off,” Louis warns, having absolutely no difficulty determining what Harry is saying, “I’m just being honest.” 

“If I may,” Dr. Carmichael clears his throat, interjecting the current bickering happening before him,  “It doesn’t matter whether Harry would have come to the hospital a month ago. A lot of the time AMVs are hard to detect and we’ve only been able to detect Harry’s because of the rupture.” 

Anne shakily inhales, “Is there a chance of a second bleed?” 

“Yes,” Dr. Carmichael answers, “and unfortunately, Harry isn’t strong enough to make it through neurosurgery to remove the AMV.” 

“You mean he would die on the operating table?” Des asks, bluntly, “You’re saying he’ll die if he’s put through a second procedure, correct?” 

“Unfortunately there’s a strong possibility, yes,” Dr. Carmichael says, exchanging a glance with his colleague, “We’re very lucky Harry made it through the coiling procedure, therefore we can’t afford to put anymore pressure on his body.” 

“So what?” Louis blurts, “You’re just gonna let that abnormality sit in his brain and hope it doesn’t cause any more damage?” 

Dr. Bahl speaks, “We may be able to operate at a later time, but for now we still have a couple options. We’re going to begin with conservative medical management, which is simply defined as medical treatment without the invasiveness of surgery. Even if we could proceed with the operation, the outcome of curing the AMV completely is not very significant,” she explains, “We’re going to keep him prescribed to Dilaudid, a painkiller,  Orapred to help reduce inflammation, and Chlorthalidone to keep his blood pressure down. We’re also going to start him on an anticonvulsant just as a precaution.” 

Anne nods, “Okay,” she whispers, “thank you.”

“In a few days time, once we’re sure the coiling procedure worked as it was meant to we’ll start to discuss moving him to a rehabilitation facility,” Dr. Carmichael says, “While I can't tell you which one to choose, there are a few in affiliation to this hospital, so it would be easier to stay in contact in case of a medical mishap.” 

“What if we don’t want rehab?” Des asks, serious. 

“Again, I cannot force your choices, but I am strongly suggesting you think about rehabilitation. Harry is never going to regain his strength if he doesn’t try.” 

Harry tucks his chin to chest, glancing down at his body. “He wants the rehabilitation,” Louis says, softly, staring at Harry. The bundle of pity is raveling in his stomach again. He looks to the doctor, “How long do you think he’ll be in rehab for?”

“Well, we’re going to start some of the rehabilitation here, obviously nothing too advanced,” Dr. Carmichael explains, “but we plan to begin this tomorrow. From here, we’ll have him transferred to the rehabilitation hospital, where they're specialized in this sort of thing. He’ll most likely be there for several months, maybe less, maybe more, depending on how quickly he improves. Does anyone have anymore questions for Dr. Bahl or myself?” 

Everyone remains silent.

“Okay, one of our surgical interns will be around to administer the medications,” he says, dismissing himself and his colleague, “and I’ll be around to speak with you later.” 

Harry stares at the ceiling, fingers on his working hand drumming along his stomach.

“They have such high regards for you,” Anne says, “It sounds like they're expecting a full recovery, love, isn't that great?”

Harry hardly acknowledges her, his intent gaze remaining on the ceiling tile. They sit in silence for a few minutes until Harry nods towards the door, grunting because he can't speak. 

“What?” Anne asks, touching Harry’s face, “Try it again sweet-” Harry jerks his head, forcing her hand away, and looks in the opposite direction of her. 

Des and Anne look to Louis for a cue. “He wants to be alone,” he says, “Just needs some room to breathe, I think.” 

The ex-husband and wife duo seem to understand. They both bid goodbye to Harry. Des is quicker to depart than Anne, who hesitates, brushing her hand through Harry’s messy hair. He's in need of a shower, but Louis knows he can't do it by himself, a nurse would literally have to wash him down, and Harry still has some of his dignity left, too much to allow someone to bathe him. 

“We'll see you in the morning,” Anne whispers, “Call if you need anything, absolutely anything at all, Harry.” She kisses his cheek, which he wipes off with his hand. She sighs, then walks out of the room, smiling weakly at Louis. 

Louis watches Harry, who still stares at the ceiling, “I know you're frustrated, but your mum is really trying to help you. It's been hard for her to stay positive,” he stands, causing Harry to shift his attention to him, “It's just something for you to think about,” he clears his throat, “Uh, anyway, I've got to go, but I’ll come visit you soon, alright? Maybe in a few days or something.” 

Harry shakes his head, uttering something unclear, but lucid enough for Louis to understand. “Don’t bother?” Louis asks, annoyed, “You know what, Harry? Fine, if you’re gonna be rude to people who are trying to help you during such a difficult time, then no one’s gonna want to be around you. You’re making it extremely hard to be supportive.”

Harry shrugs, shifting his attention to the window, staring at the city infrastructure stretching beyond the hospital parking lot.

“You’re ridiculous,” Louis walks out.

 

 

 

 

Three days later, Louis wakes in the morning to a horrific phone call.

“Hello?” he mutters, voice thick, his vision bleary.

“Louis? Louis, is that you?” A female’s posh voice asks, “Love, it's Anne, Harry's mum, Anne,” she explains as though Louis doesn't have the slightest idea. 

“Oh, good morning Anne,” Louis says, surprised. He doesn't know why Anne is calling  _ him _ out of all people. He hasn't seen Harry since he walked out of the hospital room, three days ago, but in actuality, he was planning to visit him tomorrow, “How are you?”

“I’m-” her voice breaks, instead saying, “Harry's very sick, Louis.” 

“Right, I know,” he utters, confused, “Did he-”

“He's picked up an infection from the incision site,” Anne says, flatly, “and I seem to be aggravating him more, can you- will you come to the hospital? I think seeing you might settle him.” 

As Anne’s speaks, Louis sits upright in bed. To his left is Clifford, laying flat on his back, all four paws in the air. “Is he alright? Like, how bad of an infection?”

“They’re thinking it’s only superficial, just in the skin area, but it could be deep, which means it stretches beyond the skin, into the muscle and tissue,” Anne explains, “He has a fever and the shakes, but they changed the dressings on his thigh and started him on an antibiotic, so they’re hoping they caught it early enough.” 

Louis gnaws on the inside of his cheek. “But you said he’s aggravated?” 

“You know how Harry is when he doesn’t feel well, absolutely stubborn,” Anne forces a laugh, “and I’m sure having his mother fussing over his every move isn’t helping, but I can’t help myself. It’s my job.” 

“I’m sure he knows that, Anne," Louis says without hesitation, "I’ll be there in about an hour,”  


After he hangs up the phone, he showers, changes his clothes, and leaves his house, scratching behind Clifford’s ears and bidding him goodbye. He doesn’t know when he’ll be back. 

On his way to the hospital, he takes a slight detour, driving to Harry’s house - or well, mansion, if he’s taking the size into consideration - and parks in the driveway. 

A stone path leads to a rod iron gate, surrounded by lively green bushes, both barricading the massive mansion that lies behind it. The mansion is made of polished white rock covered in a slick silver dew. There's a tarnished wooden door, pointed at the top, and large double-glazed windows covering the front of the house, giving the place an antique atmosphere, though the architecture can't be anything more than a few decades old.

He slips out of the car and walks to the front door. If he’s assuming correctly, then the extra key should be taped to the inside of the windowsill, which is where Harry always put the extra keys to their house.

The mansion is desolate from neighbors, but London is within walking distance. It's a tranquil area, there are birds chirping, perched on tall oak trees, and the sun shares its warmth, shining bright in the sky. There isn't a cloud in the sky. As he inhales, he's able to detect a faint scent of chlorine. The closer he moves to the front door, the stronger the sterile chemical becomes, indicating the pool has been opened for the season. 

He feels around for the key, finding it exactly where he presumed, and picks at the tape until it wears out. He uses the key to unlock the front door and slides inside. Though, as soon as he walks inside, he feels an extreme level of discomfort. The house is hardly furnished and doesn’t genuinely look lived in. 

Louis’ chest feels tight. He doesn't know how Harry returns to such an unfriendly place every night. He walks upstairs, searching for Harry’s room, pulling several doors ajar, until finding his ex-boyfriend’s bedroom. 

Even the bedroom doesn’t feel comfortable. The walls are bleak white, hardly any decorations are up, and the only signifying that the space belongs to Harry are the photo frames of family and friends on his dresser and the ‘H’ pillow placed in the center of his bed. 

As Louis approaches the dresser, he pauses at the sight of a photo of himself and Harry tucked into a frame, picking it up to examine it closer. It’s a picture from their trip to Paris - the last trip they took as a couple - in the background is the Louvre. He and Harry aren’t centered in the photo, rather they’re positioned closer to the left side, arms wrapped around another - Harry’s arms around Louis’ neck and Louis’ around Harry’s waist - and they’re kissing. It’s a photo taken from a side profile, but Louis can still tell how content they look. Harry’s lips are drawn into a sweet smile while his own face is extremely soft, no worry or discomfort evident. 

If he was so happy there, then why did he leave Harry less than two months later? He sighs, setting the photo down. He wonders why Harry still has it, but doesn’t bother racking his mind for a plausible answer. 

He walks over to Harry’s bedside dresser and opens the drawer. Inside he finds a orange prescription bottle with a white and black label reading Fluoxetine, and Prozac in parentheses beside it. He hesitates for a moment, instantly recognizing the label as an SSRI, though struggles with understanding his own obliviousness. He didn’t know Harry was depressed and medicated.  

Louis sets the bottle down on the tabletop, then retreats to Harry’s closet, where he finds his ex-boyfriend’s worn brown duffel, it’s his favorite bag. He walks to the bedside table again and drops the prescription pills into the bag. With some more sorting, he finds Harry’s newest song journal - as the rest are neatly tucked away in the closet - a few pens, and his Canon camera, placing all things in the bag. Next, he goes to Harry’s closet, withdrawing a few of his favorite shirts (his Rolling Stone shirt, AC/DC shirt, Queen shirt, and a simple black tee) as well as two pairs of sweatpants. He finds Harry’s Macbook thrown aside on a chair in the living room and slides it into his bag along with all the proper charging cables.

He glances around the house once more, then sighs to himself, shutting the door and locking it behind him. Harry’s house is about a fifteen minute drive to the hospital, which means Louis doesn’t have to feel antsy for very long. 

He walks into the hospital and finds his way to the third floor, to Harry’s hospital room, and sees Anne standing out in the hallway with Dr. Carmichael, arms crossed over her chest. “Afternoon,” he greets, “Am I good to go in?”

Anne glances at him, “Yes, of course. We were just discussing some minor details,” her eyes drift to Harry’ bag hanging from his shoulder, “Is that-“

“Yeah, brought some things from his house,” Louis says, “How is he? Is there anything I should know?” 

“Harry has a fever and is experiencing some nausea and discomfort as a result of the infection,” Dr. Carmichael explains, “but as of now, it looks like he’s going to recover in a few days.” 

Louis nods, “That’s good,” he looks to Harry’s shut hospital door, “I’m gonna pop in then, see how he’s doing,” The door creaks as he opens it and steps inside, then creaks again as it shuts behind him.

As soon as he catches sight of Harry, he feels awful. The younger boy is sitting up - finally - but his complexion is flushed pink and Louis can tell he’s fevered by the glassy appearance in his eyes. A slight tremor controls his body, even despite the three blankets draped around his thin frame. Sweat spontaneously rolls off his face, gathering at certain spots on the blanket. “You’re sick,” Louis says, obtaining Harry’s attention immediately, “God, you’re really sick,” he mutters in shock.

Harry blinks at him. 

Louis approaches the bed, sitting on the edge of it, and letting the bag slide to the floor. He leans across Harry’s partially able body and presses the back of his hand to his forehead, “Shit, you’re burning up, love,” he feels his overheated cheeks, one hand splayed across each cheek, “Do you have some water to drink? You’re gonna get dehydrated.” 

Harry looks to the I.V. drip, gesturing to it with a nod, indicating he’s receiving fluids from the medical bag. 

“You can try to talk around me, y’know, I’m not gonna judge you,” Louis points out. Harry glances down at his lap. “But if you’re not comfortable, that’s okay too.” 

Harry opens his mouth, then shuts it, thinking about what he wants to say. He points to Louis first.

“Me?” Louis asks.

Harry nods. “Caaa…” he slurs, gesturing to the door. 

“I…” Louis tries to process what Harry is trying to say, “I came?” he guesses. Harry nods. “Of course, I came. I was planning on coming this weekend, but your mum said you needed a little company. Has anyone else been in to visit you?” 

Harry swallows, “Niii…”

“Niall?” Harry meets his eyes, a certain surprise crossing over them. Louis can really interpret what he’s struggling to say. “And if Niall was here, Liam must have been too, yeah?”

Harry hums. 

“That’s good,” A silence falls between them. Louis clears his throat, “Uh, I hope you don’t mind, but I stopped by your house and grabbed some of your stuff,” he reaches for the bag, repositioning it on his lap. “I brought some clothes, so you can stop wearing those hospital gowns. I bet you’re tired of your ass hanging out the back all the time,” he jests, neatly stacking the sweatpants and shirts, “and here’s your computer and camera, your journal, some pens and-“ Louis pulls out the prescription bottle, shaking it, forcing the pills to rattle. “Thought maybe you needed these.” 

Harry clenches his jaw, turning his head to the side, to avoid eye contact. 

“I’m not gonna say anything about them to anyone,” Louis says. Harry hesitantly peers at him, chest beginning to rapidly rise and fall with his quickened breathing pattern, “It’s not my place. Obviously, you didn’t want anyone to know, and I know, I never made an attempt to be civil with you, it’s my fault, but you could have told me that you were depressed, I would have tried to help you,” he sets the pill bottle on the tabletop, “Are you seeing a therapist at least?” 

Harry nods.

“Good,” Louis whispers. While he wants to ask more questions in regard to the pills he found, he chooses not to, deciding he’ll allow his curiosity to live on for awhile. “Do you want me to set anything up for you while I’m here?” 

Harry doesn’t indicate any verbal cues, instead reaching for his song journal with his able hand, but when he tries to grab it, his hand chooses not to cooperate, knocking it to the floor instead, sending loose papers scattered all over the room. He groans and tries to sit up further as if he’ll be able to reach them. 

Louis grabs his shoulder, “Relax, it’s okay. I’ve got it,” he says, bending down to pick everything off the floor. Most of the papers are filled with single lines of lyrics or the beginning of poetry, some even showcase doodles. Albeit they’re not very good, but they mean something to Harry.

Though, Louis’ breath catches in his throat when he sees the words ‘same eyes blue’ scrawled across a piece of paper. He picks up the paper, reading over the small bit of the song that’s been written. The first verse is quite choppy, there’s no flow developed yet, but as his eyes scan the cursive writing, he approaches the chorus, which seems to still be in the works too, but reads:

_ We’re not who we used to be _

_ We’re just two ghosts standing in the place of you and me _

_ Trying to remember how it feels to have a heartbeat  _

After the chorus, there aren't many lyrics written, aside from a scattering of words meant to form the second verse. He clears his throat, folding the paper and sliding it back into the journal. 

He hadn’t realized the impact his departure had on Harry. He truly destroyed a part of Harry when he decided to leave him. 

“Here,” Louis sets the journal on Harry’s chest, “I think I picked everything up.”

Harry doesn’t acknowledge him, attempting to place his belongings in the drawer beside him. He proves to be unable to reach that far, considering his right side won’t cooperate with what he wants to do. “Harry, you’ve got to take it easy,” Louis reminds, opening the top drawer and placing Harry’s things inside. The second drawer is where Louis arranges his folded clothes. “Have you started therapy yet?” he asks, turning to face Harry. 

Harry moves his eyes to focus on a green ball, larger than the average size of a hand, carelessly resting beside his thigh.

“Call me an idiot,” Louis stops, grabbing the ball. It’s made of foam, judging by the way it absorbs pressure when squeezed, then slowly expands to original condition when released, “but I would say, you’re supposed to be working with this,” He squeeze the ball once, then allows it to return to original shape, before doing it again. “Even if you can’t quite squeeze it with your right hand, your left is weak too, you should be using this.” 

Harry meets Louis’ eyes, then his eyes drift to focus on the ball.

Louis leans forward, grabbing Harry’s right hand, which feels absolutely stiff. He carefully pries his fingers open, as his hand is clenched, fingers curved inward toward his palm. “If you wanna get better, you have to try,” Louis says, placing the ball in the palm of Harry’s hand, adjusting his fingers to grip the ball. “Can you squeeze at all?” he asks, observing Harry’s hand, “Even if you can only move one of your fingers, it’s something.”

His hand doesn’t even twitch.

Harry stares down at his hand and shakes his head. Louis reaches for Harry’s hand, but Harry grunts, using his left hand to move his right away, implying he doesn’t want Louis’ help. 

Louis sighs as the ball slides out of Harry’s grip. “Harry,” he whispers, “Let me help you, please? I wanna see you get better.” 

Harry shakes his head.

“Do you want to be stuck like this for the rest of your life?” Louis asks, abruptly, “You’re twenty two years old, you have the ability to get better, you can afford the best doctors, why wouldn’t you take advantage of that? Because I’ll tell you right now, if you don’t start trying to get better, you’re gonna be stuck like this and it’s gonna be a rapid decline from here.”

Harry looks away from him.

“You’re gonna die, Harry,” Louis swallows, “How can you not see that? You’ll die if you refuse to try. You’re gonna be in a worse position having someone wipe your ass and feed you and dress you because you won’t be able to do it yourself. It’ll be like that the rest of your life if you don’t try,” Louis rambles, “You’ll be dead by the time you’re thirty and I- I don’t want to see that happen to you, alright? I really don’t.”

Harry glances at Louis, lips pursed, nearly quivering, as he studies him. 

“I care about you and I don’t want you to die,” Louis says, touching Harry’s cheek. Tears begin to sting the back of his eyes. “The thing is, I know I fucked up, okay? And I know now is not the time to be sorry for what I did to you, but I’m really sorry, Harry. God, I am so sorry, and if I could go back-“ He blinks, causing the tears to squeeze out and streak his cheeks, “If I could go back, I would, I definitely would. I would have been honest with you. I would have- I would have told you the truth. We could have talked it out.” 

Harry swallows, trying to utter the question of why. 

“I don’t know- I just, I thought, I thought you cared about the job more than me. I thought you were planning to leave me. It didn’t feel like a real relationship anymore and I didn’t- I didn’t want to be the heartbroken one, I didn’t want you to leave me, so I left you before you could leave me. It made more sense in the moment,” Louis whispers, “I can’t even imagine what I put you through and I’m sorry for any trauma and anxiety I caused you.” 

Harry’s eyes begin to water and he laughs, a sad, strangled laugh as he fixates his eyes on his lap. He shakes his head until his laughing morphs into anguished sobs. 

He’s internalized everything for almost a week now and having Louis before him, telling him the magic in their relationship was dead when Harry never felt that way at all, is not helping this severe emotional release. 

Louis’ face falls upon hearing the absolutely horrific crying expelling out of Harry’s weak form. He quickly climbs onto the bed, kneeling on the edge, and collects Harry into his arms, hauling his unable body against his smaller frame. Harry is both broader and taller than he is and the dead-weight the younger boy's supplying with half of his body doesn't help Louis to hold him upright. “Shh, it’s okay,” he whispers, hand moving to cradle the back of Harry’s head. He entangles his fingers into the mess of matted curls, rubbing the pads of his fingers against Harry’s scalp, “You’re okay, shh. I’m sorry, Harry, I am so sorry. None of this should have ever happened." 

Harry cries into Louis’ chest, body quivering from an overload of emotion. Louis tucks Harry’s head under his chin, shutting his eyes as he holds him. “You’ve gotta do this for me,” he whispers, “You’ve gotta get better. I know you can do it, Harry, I know you have it in you to get better." He runs his fingers through Harry's hair, stroking the back of his head, "Shh, it's alright, don't cry love, don't cry. You're gonna be alright."

Louis presses his lips to the top of Harry's head, holding him tighter, and whispers, "I'm gonna make this right. I'm gonna fix what I did and you're gonna get better and everything's gonna be _fine_."

Harry’s crying starts to slow. He sniffles against Louis, wiping his face on his shirt. Louis pulls away, holding Harry away at arms length, “You know, you’re still the most beautiful man I’ve ever laid eyes on. I don’t think that will ever change,” he says, then releases Harry, returning to a proper position, sitting on the side of the bed. “Here, try the therapy ball for me,” he proposes, guiding the ball into Harry’s grasp as he did before. 

He places his hand over top of Harry’s and squeezes, forcing Harry’s hand to contract around the ball, then releases, allowing Harry’s hand to do the same. He squeezes and releases several more times as if trying to wire Harry’s brain to do the same. “I know when my granddad had his stroke, they had him do a lot of different exercises,” he says, carefully pulling Harry’s thumb away from the ball and extending it. He follows the same process he did before, squeezes only Harry’s fingers, forcing them to press into the ball, then releases. “Have they brought in coins or clothespins yet?” 

Harry shakes his head, watching their touching hands as Louis aids him in regaining strength. “Oh, they’ll probably start when you have more mobility in your fingers,” Louis suggests, “and if they don’t start it here, you’ll start at the rehabilitation center,” He takes the ball from Harry and sets it down on his bedside table. He adjusts the railing on the side of Harry’s bed, pulling it down, in order to create more space. He positions Harry’s hand, palm facing up, flat on the mattress, then slowly flips his palm down, again following the exercise several times.

His fingers graze the top of Harry’s hand. He’s always been with fascinated with his hands. They’re large, veiny, and beautiful to look at. While he has huge hands, they’re gentle and hesitant, which fits his character, as Harry is considerably tender and considerate himself. If he wasn’t in the hospital right now, his fingers would be decorated with rings, three on his right hand, two on his left, each symbolic of someone important to him. 

Louis intertwines their fingers, holding Harry’s hand as he studies the creases and folds carefully sculpted into it. He has a birthmark on his wrist, a slightly darker hue, in contrast to his pale, flushed complexion. “I think they’re moving you out of here in a few days. It sounded like your mum was talking to your doctor about it earlier.” 

Harry keeps his eyes trained on their intertwined hands. He wants to be able to squeeze Louis' hand, but in his current state, it’s quite impossible. His breathing sounds a bit heavy and frustrated as he squeezes his left hand - the one without Louis’ touch - and tries to pursue the same action with his right, but proves unable to. 

“Harry,” Louis touches his cheek, cradling his face with his free hand, “Harry, it’s alright. It’s gonna take some time.” 

Harry meets Louis’ eyes as he tries to form a complete sentence, but a slew of poorly formed words come out instead. 

Louis carefully listens, attempting to understand what Harry is saying without provoking embarrassment, “One more time, love,” he whispers, “Slow down.”

He never thought he would ever tell Harry to slow down when it came to talking - as Harry is a naturally slow speaker - but he needs to hear each word on its own before determining the entire sentence.

Harry struggles to say all words, but it seems words with definite consonants, for example T or R, are even more challenging for him.

“Am I gonna stay around?” Louis asks, checking to see if that’s what Harry intended. Harry nods. “Of course, for as long as you want me to, I owe it to you.” 

Harry doesn’t say anything else. He slowly adjusts his body on the mattress, no longer sitting, instead laying down, and glances at Louis. 

Louis squeezes his hand, even if he can’t necessarily feel it, then brings it to his mouth, brushing his lips against his knuckles. “You should get some rest. I’ll be around when you wake up.” 

It doesn’t take Harry very long to fall asleep, in fact it’s only a matter of minutes before he dozes off, and Louis releases his hand, watching over him for a moment. He pushes his hair off his face and kisses his forehead before deciding to grab lunch from the hospital cafeteria.  


As he sits, picking through a few soggy fries, he sees a middle-aged man and woman. The man is bound to a cane, but the woman doesn’t appear bothered, walking along side him at a slowed pace, barring both of their trays.

It’s in this moment Louis realizes, he  _ has _ been looking into Harry’s future. Every middle-aged man, walking about with an aid, is representative of Harry’s future, and he doesn’t know quite how to feel about Harry losing the normalcy he's maintained his entire life. 

So, he doesn’t think about it. He shuts his thought process off, disregards the terrifying idea of Harry never fully recovering, and stuffs a handful of fries in his mouth to fill the indefinite void. 

Never again will he be the one to tear Harry down. 


End file.
